


Pillow Talk

by Yin



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2018-04-06 16:49:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 85,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4229439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yin/pseuds/Yin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of assorted Grimmons short stories and one shots, along with possible prequels to longer fics.  Other characters and pairings vary from story to story (will add tags as needed).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Family Road Trips are the Worst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Grif, Simmons, and Tucker head back to Blood Gulch in order to hopefully find two missing family members during a rare quiet moment for the group._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for how bad this story is comparatively, as it is actually the first RvB fic I ever attempted writing. Originally, it was going to be the beginning story to a full-fledged extremely Canon Divergent fic series set sometime after Season 10 (Grimmons, some hinting of Kai and Tucker as friends with benefits though that would eventually make way for a later Tuckington relationship as the plot progressed), but I never felt completely comfortable with the way the entire story was gelling together and I ended up deciding to try writing Above Ground instead which I’ve overall felt a lot more positive about in general. :D {Some scenes I did really like and everything, so I might just end up reworking them into self-contained stories too at some point…maybe. Haven’t decided yet. XD}
> 
> But I've had this short “first” story for it sitting on my comp since before Season 11 started, and after having to transfer files to a new one recently figured I might as well post it since it technically counts as a stand-alone.
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own Red vs. Blue or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

The heat certainly hadn’t changed. That much was for sure.

The second they entered the box canyon, the heat had enveloped them in its familiar suffocating fashion. Managing to stick to their persons, and somehow finding its way into even their supposedly sealed and climate-regulated armor.

Richard “Dick” Simmons sighed at the sensation. He could honestly say that he had _not_ missed this at all.

His companions on this impromptu journey vocally shared his sentiment.

“Shit, I’d forgotten how fucking hot it gets here.” The teal soldier nearby complained. The alien sword that he always wore at his side suddenly came to life in his hand, and he was trying to use it to frantically fan himself.

Simmons had to bite his tongue to keep himself from informing Lavernius Tucker that trying to fan himself with a sword made entirely out of energy through sealed armor wasn’t going to accomplish anything.

The impulse was strong, but the cyborg had already been called a know-it-all more than he cared to keep track of on this trip.

Their orange companion moved listlessly to stand by Simmons’ side, breathing hard from the movement but not saying a word. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet the closer they’d gotten to their destination. Not that Simmons could blame him.

He knew that Dexter Grif had hated this place in a rather particularly intense fashion after having gotten stuck there thanks to the one-man draft, “I’d almost forgotten how much I hated it here. Until now.”

“Tell me about it.” Simmons said in quick agreement.

Grif kicked absentmindedly at a loose rock on the cliff side, the three simulation troopers watching it fall down in silence.

Tucker spoke next, his voice sounding oddly thoughtful, “I don’t know. This place sort of had some good points too.”

The two members of Red Team stared at him incredulously, and the dark-skinned man blanched behind his helmet.

“I mean, well, fuck it! There were some good times here too! Like, memories and all that shit?”

“You mean beyond the pointless fighting, Sarge’s insane strategies, rampant homicidal AIs, crazy-ass Freelancers, aliens knocking people up, zombie captains, and emergency plans that always resulted in me getting shot?” Grif asked.

Simmons winced at the last part, secretly glad that Sarge had put most of those plans on hold now that he’d _somewhat_ warmed up to _“the lazy, good-fer-nothing dirtbag”_ on his squad.

Tucker shifted on his feet. The swaying grass in the valley down below suddenly very interesting to him. Squinting, the Blue Team member could almost make out the distinct shape of _his_ rock. His heart swelled at the memory of some good, albeit very embarrassing-if-ever-found-out-about times.

“Err, I don’t know. Maybe? Look, I know there are at least some things that happened here that I’m somewhat grateful for.”

…One of them, Tucker hoped to find here again. His mind wandered slightly to some other personal memories too, and he couldn’t help but smile wistfully.

Hell, maybe the dark-skinned man was hoping to find _two_ of those things still here.

Both Red Team members seemed to take a few moments to soak in his words. Subconsciously, Simmons turned his head slightly to look sideways at Grif when Tucker mentioned there being things he was “grateful” for that happened here.

But, he quickly jerked his head away in the hopes of his action not being discovered.

He didn’t notice that Grif did the exact same thing only seconds later, albeit the orange-armored soldier’s gaze lingered. The Hawaiian was rather glad that his helmet kept his line of sight hidden from his maroon-armored friend.

“Yeah, I guess.” He finally muttered, tearing his gaze away from Simmons after a few minutes, “It’s still a shitty place though.”

“Oh, no arguments there.” Tucker agreed quickly. He’d noticed the not-quite-as-subtle-as-either-of-them-had-hoped glances that the two teammates had given one another, but chose to keep his mouth shut on the subject to avoid getting shot at.

Why the two soldiers still hadn’t just admitted that they were in love with one another yet was beyond him. They pretty much were practically all but in a relationship already. He’d called it all those years ago, and the “old married couple” sentiment had only seemed to grow around them since then. All either of them needed to do now was just confess their feelings for the other and make the damn thing official.

Granted, Tucker figured relationships usually seemed more complicated from the inside than they did looking at them from the outside.

Which is why he always tried to keep things low-key and find as many lovely ladies as possible to have fun with. Can’t deny the universe all of the Tucker that it so desperately needed, right?

“Let’s get down there then.” Grif, surprisingly, was the first person to move down the cliff and into the canyon proper.

Made sense, Tucker supposed. While Grif hated being back here, there was a reason he’d agreed to come all the same.

Speaking of which…

“Hey, fat-ass, when we find your sister, do you mind if I spend a little alone time with her? Catch up on old times as teammates, if you know what I mean? Bow-chicka-bow-wo-- _hey_!”

His catchphrase was cut off by the bullet from Grif’s rifle that missed his head by a mere centimeter. Tucker shut up instantly, the older brother’s warning well-received as he moved down the cliff-side while the orange soldier shot him an angry glare for his joke. Even with his helmet on, it was a pretty fear-inducing one.

Behind him, he could hear Simmons mumble a muffled something that sounded a lot like _“idiot”_ under his breath as he made his way down to join the other two.

As Simmons’ feet touched the ground of Blood Gulch proper once more, he thought back to the events that had led the three of them here again with a weary, inwardly-directed sigh from within the confines of his helmet.

*****

_Tucker had approached the two of them during their forced “helping” to hunt down the former Director of Project Freelancer, the man who had gotten both the Red and Blue Teams involved in the whole “simulation trooper” mess to begin with._

_Church (well, technically ”Epsilon-Church” if you were going by semantics—_ man, was that some confusing shit or what? _) had gone out for a ride with their mutual “friendenemapanion,” as Sarge was so often fond of calling Carolina._

_Washington was out on guard duty following the two’s departure to who-knows-where. “Personal business” was all Washington would say on the matter, though the former Freelancer seemed troubled enough by his own thoughts as it was so no one felt like prying any further._

_Everyone else had made camp inside the temple ruins, as ordered._

_Caboose was bugging Sarge on the other side of the hallway about sleepover traditions. No one had the heart or patience to really try to correct the simple-minded soldier on what was truly going on anymore._

_Despite Sarge grumbling from time to time, it seemed as if he didn’t necessarily mind the young Blue’s company overly much as he talked about “proper sleepover protocol” in the military and how that contrasted with watching movies and eating snacks well after bedtime._

_“I like eating popcorn at sleepovers!” They heard Caboose interject randomly at that point, his tone happy._

_Maybe Sarge was just humoring the poor kid since the situation was so tense even if Caboose himself wasn’t fully aware of what they were involved in now. Or maybe the older soldier missed the happy, naïve bubbling of their own team’s younger member Donut more than he’d let on._

_He would joke at times, sure, but it was obvious that Donut’s absence had an effect on their commander all the same. Simmons swore he wasn’t even as hard on Grif on occasions anymore subconsciously because of it._

_Whatever the reason, it seemed to keep both of them distracted for the moment and let the others dwell on their own personal thoughts._

_“Hey, Grif?” Tucker began, sounding almost nervous as he hastily unclasped his helmet and pulled it off. He glanced everywhere in the corridor but at the soldier he’d just addressed, “You’re pretty much the official driver for your team now, right?”_

_Grif shrugged, “I guess so.” He glanced over at Simmons who was sitting next to him, their backs against the cooler wall of the temple corridor, “I mean, I’m better at it than Simmons here.” The smirk was evident in his voice._

_Simmons bristled at that, both teams_ still _mocking him for his earlier driving escapades, “I just think it’s best to obey traffic laws even in tense situations. The rules are there for a reason!”_

_His friend shook his head, “Whatever you say, Simmons. It’s still lame to stop at a train signal in the middle of a freaking high-speed chase.”_

_Tucker, who had happened to be riding shotgun with Simmons at the time, couldn’t help but agree. Safety laws could be fucked for all he cared when he had to duck and pray that he wasn’t going to get hit by a peppering of UNSC bullets._

_The maroon soldier mumbled something under his breath that sounded a lot like “_ brainless adrenaline monkeys _”, but Grif seemed content to let the teasing end._

_He took off his helmet to match Tucker’s action, and reached to his side to see if he still had his cigarettes. Grif scowled when they came up missing and tried counting to ten, his glare landing on Simmons who suddenly seemed to be finding the ground absolutely fascinating._

_So, the cyborg had taken them again._ Son of a…!

 _Admittedly, Grif had been_ trying _to quit smoking at least for a little while now since he finally got fed up with Simmons constantly trying to guilt-trip his ass about “ruining his lungs like how he’d ruined his own before the operation.” So he figured he would cut down on the number of packs he smoked a day._

_The Hawaiian been doing a pretty good job of it so far. Only about three cigarettes a day now, which for him was a marked improvement over his past chain-smoking tendencies. He had even mastered smoking with his helmet on before all of this, after all! Which had been pretty fucking impressive and deserved a medal if ever something did._

_But, recent events had been pretty nerve-wracking and damn it! He_ needed _one of his vices now. Since he hadn’t brought any booze with him, a smoke would have been perfect._

_But, evidently, Simmons thought his “slowly weaning off” attempts were a trick or something. Every time Grif secured a new pack of cigarettes, he found them gone a few hours later. It just made him want to smoke ten cigarettes more just to piss off the annoying kiss-ass. After all, it wasn’t any of his business if he smoked the whole pack or not. He’d bought them, damn it!_

_Not noticing the sudden tension growing between the two teammates, Tucker breathed and barreled on with the question he’d been trying to get out ever since approaching them, “Anyways, I was wondering if, when all of this is over, you could maybe drive me back to Blood Gulch for a little bit?”_

_The question got Grif to stop momentarily envisioning suffocating Simmons with a cloud of tobacco smoke if he still had is actual lungs, and he looked at the Blue Team soldier in surprise._

_“You want to go back to Blood Gulch?” He asked incredulously._

_The dark-skinned man nodded, looking embarrassed for some reason._

_Seemingly realizing that he was temporarily saved from a shouting fit of Grif’s, Simmons also looked up at Tucker curiously, “Why?”_

_He seemed to be debating whether or not he really wanted to tell them, his brown eyes darting over towards Caboose who was animatedly gesturing something while conversing with Sarge. He sighed and sat down on the ground, facing them._

_“It’s about my kid.” He finally said, glancing over at the two of them to make sure they were listening, “You guys remember Junior, right?”_

_Simmons nodded, “Your alien baby?”_

_A nod._

_Grif continued, “The one you gave birth to because you were seduced in the swamp?”_

_Simmons was glad his helmet was still on at this point in the conversation, because his fact just paled at the mental imagery._

_Tucker seemed nonplussed because he had heard even_ worse _comments about how he’d happened to give birth to Junior, with most of them coming from his former team leader, “Hey, man, you have to be aware of what’s going on for it to be a seduction.”_

 _Gah, Simmons_ really _wished the conversation would change course at this point. His brain had way too hyperactive of an imagination at times._

_“Okay, okay. My bad there.” Grif’s tone was one of mild disinterest. This usually seemed to be the way his interactions with Tucker went: they’d poke fun at one another a little bit, but it would normally die down in a couple of seconds when the real conversation started, “Yeah, we remember your kid. What does he have to do with Blood Gulch?”_

_“Remember how, before we met up again here, I said that Junior and I had become something like ambassadors between humans and aliens since the war had ended?”_

_Grif nodded, “Because of something about how the two of you were ‘between worlds’ or something?” He couldn’t help but jokingly smirk at that._

_Simmons, who hadn’t been there for that particular conversation, remained quiet._

_“Shut up.” Tucker responded to the smirk first to keep Grif from making the smartass comment he knew was probably already on the other soldier’s lips, “And, yes.”_

_The teal-armored soldier closed his eyes in thought, recounting something, “Junior can take care of himself surprisingly well when he needs to.”_

”Well, duh.” _Simmons thought before inwardly sighing that his brain had actually thought the word “duh” since that was obviously a sign he was hanging around Grif too much,_ ”He is genetically one half of a deadly alien warrior race.”

_“…But, sometimes, I worried about putting him in situations if I really thought there might be danger. I guess it was my fatherly instincts or something.”_

_“Motherly.” Simmons couldn’t help but correct._

_Tucker turned to glare at him, while Grif tried to unsuccessfully stifle a snort of laughter._

_The redhead shifted uncomfortably, trying to defend himself, “Well, you carried him to term and gave birth to him! Technically, that makes you his mother from a scientific stance.”_

_“Dude, you got beat up_ a lot _in high school, didn’t you?”_

_Simmons’ face flushed and he looked at the ground again, “I don’t want to talk about it.” He mumbled._

”Well, that explains his ‘I go to the gym everyday to stay in shape and lithe’ physique now.” _Tucker couldn’t help but think._

 _“_ Anyways _, I guess it was my parental instincts.” Tucker cast a look at the Red Team’s resident suck-up to see if he’d challenge him on the new word choice. When nothing was said, he continued, “I told Junior that if we were ever separated for really long, he should head home and I’d meet him there.”_

_“And that was…?” Grif prompted._

_“Before the siege here by that fucker C.T. and you guys showed up.”_

_Grif whistled appreciatively: that_ had _been a while ago._

_Tucker shifted uncomfortably on the ground, a worried look crossing over his features, “I’d meant to go find him the second that whole business with the fucking Meta had been taken care of, but then…”_

_“We got forced into helping crazy-ass Freelancer lady with her equally crazy vendetta.” Grif finished for him._

_Tucker nodded, looking guilty now. In a way, the two Red soldiers couldn’t help but feel a bit of pity and sympathy for his predicament._ None _of them had wanted to get involved in this new mission that now made them wanted criminals, but to also have someone who you’d promised to find again waiting for you in the meanwhile? That had to suck._

 _Grif’s thoughts went to Kaikaina and the old feeling of uncomfortable guilt rose within him at her memory. He_ knew _she was alive still, she had to be. But, he hadn’t made any promises to her about coming back._

 _He couldn’t have in good conscience really, after the draft and all. After all, he had no_ idea _when or if he’d be able to see her again. Plus, Grif had honestly been_ pissed _when he had found out that she’d run away to try to find him._

 _Still, not knowing_ for sure _what had happened to her just drove him mad sometimes._

_He’d long since given up on being a brother that could be there for her all the time. The draft had seen to that well before either sibling had been really ready for it. But, that didn’t mean the desire wasn’t still there all the same. For someone as generally lazy and unmotivated as he was, it tended to leave an unpleasant feeling in his chest whenever he thought about it._

_Simmons glanced over at Grif, noticing the slight frown on his tan features. He’d seen the look before and could guess what it signified: the first time he’d seen it had been the night (technically speaking, the time their clocks designated was night at least) after Sarge had told Grif that Lopez had killed Sister. Even though Grif adamantly refused to believe it, that particular expression had darkened his face with worry on more than one occasion when he didn’t think anyone else was looking._

_Instinctively, Simmons found that his cybernetic arm, the one closest to Grif, had moved of its own accord and that his fingers were just a fraction away from making contact with the other’s hand._

_He stopped himself from going through with the intended comforting motion with a quick jolt that brought the offending appendage close to his side again, heart beating way too loud in his ears. Or, at least, the closest thing he had to a mechanical equivalent of a heart that was now located in the same spot in his chest where an organic heart should be._

_A blush was forming on his cheeks at the realization of what he’d almost done, and he was yet again thankful that he hadn’t taken off his helmet yet. The other two soldiers, lost in their own thoughts, thankfully didn’t seem to notice Simmons’ odd behavior just then._

_Shaking his head slightly, he turned to Tucker and managed to squeak out in a voice that only sounded slightly shaky, “S—so, what makes you think he’s at Blood Gulch then? Is that where he thinks home is?”_

_Tucker shrugged, looking sheepish once more, “Honestly, dude? I have no fucking clue. I never bothered asking Junior where he thought home was.”_

_“But you asked him to go there anyways on his own?” Grif let out a low whistle, “That’s some bullshit parenting right there.”_

_“Says the guy whose sister has had seven abortions.”_

_The two were still joking, but it seemed like the topic was a powder keg about to go off if one wrong comment was made._

_As if sensing this, Tucker elaborated on his earlier statement, “Truthfully, I thought it wasn’t an important issue because I didn’t think I’d be separated from him for this long, so I never brought it up again. But Junior’s a good kid, so I know he listened to me.” He glanced at Grif, hoping to make any amends about his earlier Sister comment, “Probably like how Kai followed you because she thought you were a good brother.”_

_“’_ Kai _’?” Simmons raised an eyebrow at this. As far as he knew, most people simply referred to Sister as ‘Sister’ on the Blue Team. When had Tucker started being on such familiar terms with her?_

_Grif, overprotective big brother as he could be at times, thankfully didn’t seem to notice Tucker’s slip-up. For which Simmons was grateful as that meant he didn’t have to pry Grif away from a “choking the teal soldier” moment._

_“Well, we can’t all be stellar judges of character.” The orange-armored soldier joked in response to Tucker’s last comment._

_“Nope. But, we love ‘em anyways.” Tucker agreed._

_Bullet dodged and a potentially volatile situation defused._

_“So what makes you believe Junior might think of Blood Gulch as home then?” Simmons asked._

_Tucker shrugged, looking thoughtful, “He was born there, for starters. Plus, it was actually the place we stayed at the longest.” He looked at their surprised glances and smiled, “Yeah, I know. It’s not good for a kid to be so continuously on the move like that, but there were a lot of places where our new delegate roles were needed after the war. I promised him we’d take a little break after that last one.”_

_He fidgeted slightly, “I think Blood Gulch was also where he seemed the happiest too, since he liked most of the people there. Makes sense that he might try to go back to it if he thought of it as ‘home’.”_

_“Well, it’s a pretty sound guess at any rate.” Simmons stated, then he thought back to the earlier portions of their conversation, “But, why ask Grif for a ride?”_

_“I’m not really the best with cars.” Tucker admitted, remembering his earlier driving escapades here in this very desert, “Besides, I figured he might_ want _to go.”_

_“Why would you say that?” Grif looked at his kneecaps disinterestedly._

_“Well, your sister’s still there, right?” The orange soldier’s head shot up as he continued, “I know she wasn’t technically in the army to begin with because of her age, so I figured she wouldn’t have gotten transferred with the others.”_

_Simmons frowned, “Yeah, but Lopez…” he stopped himself when he saw Grif glaring daggers at him, daring him to finish the sentence._

_The cyborg knew that Grif still believed his sister to be alive. He didn’t want to diminish that hope even though he’d seen Lopez in action before, and he knew the robot was pretty thorough. So, the redhead held his tongue despite not being sure he liked where the conversation was going._

_“So, I figured we could make it an incredibly fucked up and crazy family outing!” Tucker said hopefully. Then, looking around them and remembering the situation they were all currently stuck in, “After this whole other crazy business is taken care of. If we’re not all dead or in jail by then.”_

_Grif thought about it for a moment, a mischievous grin on his face, “Sounds like a plan. I could use a vacation from all of this.”_

_“Great! I guess we’ll just leave a note or something for the others then when it all goes down.”_

_Grif snorted, “If that. Writing letters is boring. Also, I’m pretty sure Caboose can’t read.”_

_“Draw him a picture in crayon and he’ll get the gist of it.” Tucker joked, getting up, “Thanks, man.”_

_Simmons maintained his frown, finally removing his helmet but staying silent as the Blue Team member left. He did_ not _like the idea of an unauthorized road trip at all, but he supposed he could be thankful for the moment that it had been put on the backburner currently given everything else going on._

_“Simmons!”_

_A whine came from right next to him, reverberating in his ear as Grif had leaned over as if to whisper a secret to him._

_“_ What?!? _” He couldn’t help but yell in shock at the sudden proximity and interruption of his thoughts, hoping the red on his face came off more as annoyance than the blush it really was._

_Grif was glaring at him pointedly and he gulped, suddenly remembering that his friend had found out about how Simmons had stolen his cigarettes once more during his fifth nap that day._

_“I need a smoke.” He said bluntly, “Now.”_

_Simmons frowned, becoming annoyed again, “No. I told you before, you’re_ not _ruining my lungs.”_

 _Nope, bad enough the dumbass was killing his liver with his booze consumption and_ still _devouring entire wedding cakes in under two hours. The maroon-armored soldier had to put a foot down somewhere._

_Didn’t Grif realize that you only get so many chances in their profession? Simmons’ old organs were what was keeping him alive still in the first place, because Simmons had been willing to give them up for that very purpose._

_He wasn’t going to let Grif’s self-destructive vices get the better of him again. Not when he’d come so insanely close to losing him all over again in so many other ways recently too._

_The redhead tried really, really hard not to dwell too much on ‘why’ he felt so protective towards his teammate. Best not to, really. In order to keep things stable._

_“News flash, Simmons…you’re_ not _my mother.”_

_He smirked at that, knowing of a way now that he could deflect Grif’s attention to something else entirely. Their arguments could be productive from a strategic stance, if nothing else._

_“Never said I_ was _, cockbite. I’m not nearly talented enough to be both the bearded lady and the fat lady in a circus.”_

_“You fucking kiss-ass—!“_

_Grif’s face was turning red now. Before something else happened, Simmons took the opportunity to throw a wrapped snack cake into his lap._

_The Hawaiian blinked in mid-tirade, looking down, “What’s this?”_

_“Peace offering.” Simmons proffered, “Don’t ask where I got it.”_

_He didn’t bother, opening the package with his teeth and practically inhaling the sugary treat. Simmons watched intently, finding Grif’s eating habits both disgusting and oddly fascinating._

_“Ishshtillhatesyouse.” His teammate mumbled, the food still in his mouth._

_Simmons shook his head, “Swallow before talking, Grif.”_

_A glare was his response, which he returned with a knowing smirk. But, Grif did as he was told._

_“Yes, Mother.” He finally grumbled, pouting, “But, I still want a smoke. I’ve been cutting back, you know!”_

”Not as much as I want you to.”

_Simmons sighed and closed his eyes, keeping that particular thought inside his head for now, “I know. So how about this, then? Let me hold onto the pack, and I’ll let you have a smoke every once in awhile.”_

_The tan-skinned man’s dark eyes narrowed._

_“C’mon, Grif. At least this way, I’ll feel better knowing I’m helping you keep track.”_

_“What are we, married?” Grif looked annoyed, but not as livid as he had been before. He stared at the ground in annoyance, “It’s not something I need you worrying about.”_

_“Tough shit then. You know I’m going to anyways because they’re—“_

_“’My lungs’!” Grif cut him off in an annoying sing-song voice, earning him a glare from Simmons which he then in turn replied to with an innocent-looking grin._

_At least he wasn’t angry anymore._

_“Please, Grif?” Simmons asked again, hopefully._

_The Hawaiian thought about it for a moment and let out a defeated sigh, “Fine. If only because you’ve become a really whiny bitch over it lately,” he looked at the cyborg pointedly, “And because I want Mister High-and-Mighty-Kiss-Ass here to know that I’m really serious about trying to cut back.”_

_Simmons smiled, relieved, “Thanks, Grif. I really appreciate it.”_

_A shrug, “Still not sure why you’re making such a big deal about it though.” He mumbled under his breath, and Simmons was surprised to see a slight tinge of pink momentarily cross his friend’s cheeks._

_He was tempted to ask him if he wanted to talk about it, but stopped himself. Given Tucker and Grif’s earlier conversation about potential future road trips, he figured there was a lot of stuff the two would probably have to discuss in the near future that was more important in the grand scheme of things._

_“Caboose! Where in tarnation are you going, son?”_

_Sarge’s voice boomed out, interrupting the two from their private thoughts as a blue blur shot past them._

_“To go ask Agent Washington what he wants on his popcorn for the sleepover!” The rookie shouted happily over his shoulder._

_“Caboose, I keep telling ya—it’s_ not _that kind of sleepover!” The older man let out a sigh and paused, thinking something over, “And why in Sam Hill did you have popping corn in your ammo casing in the first place?”_

*****

“Here it is.” Tucker stopped at the entrance to the base that had served as the ‘home’ of Blue Team while they’d been stationed at Blood Gulch.

Boy, did it feel weird to be here again.

He glanced around, noticing how familiar everything looked still beyond maybe the grass being a little longer now. Not as many idiots running around everywhere like chickens with their heads cut off to keep it trampled, he thought ruefully.

You really couldn’t tell that the base had only had one potential person living inside it at all for countless months now.

Guess that was the one benefit to a building made of highly durable metal and concrete: it had been made to last, even if it had just been created for crazy-ass Freelancer experiments.

He fidgeted slightly, not quite able to step onto the entrance’s ramp just yet.

“Uh, dude?” Grif looked at him in confusion, “Shouldn’t we be going in now?”

Damn it, when had _he_ become the ‘leader’ of this little expedition in the first place? Granted, he _had_ been the one to bring up the idea to begin with, but _still_.

“What about you?” Tucker shot back at the orange-armored soldier, “Your sister’s here too!”

Grif shifted uncomfortably, and looked away.

Tucker remembered an earlier conversation he’d had with Simmons then, about the Red Team’s robot Lopez saying something about how he had killed Sister earlier while everyone had been adjusting to life in Valhalla.

The cyborg had said that Grif had adamantly refused to believe that his little sister had been killed, but he knew there was probably that lingering sense of doubt in the Red Team member’s mind even if he never spoke about it.

Hell, Tucker wanted to not believe it either. For reasons that were probably not at all related to her brother’s thoughts on the subject and would most likely result in him staring down the business end of Grif’s sniper rifle again if he ever voiced them out loud.

What if Lopez _had_ been right and Sister was gone? Stepping into the Blue Team base and finding a corpse would be the ultimate proof against all the denial and hope in the world.

It was part of the reason Tucker himself was standing on the threshold too. He didn’t really want to know that either.

Plus, what if Junior wasn’t there either? He didn’t want to dwell on what that would mean, so he was hesitating while at the same time wanting to see too.

Man, looking at it from that perspective kind of made him feel like an ass. Damn it, he hated having to apologize!

He breathed in and out, “Listen, Grif, I’m sorry.”

A shrug, “It’s okay.” And from the understanding look in his eyes, he knew the Hawaiian meant it, “I shouldn’t have been too pushy.”

Oh, good. They’d had a friendship moment and it was over pretty quick too. Not as awkward as he thought it would be. Tucker was relieved.

Now to just ignore it and pretend it never happened for the rest of their lives, sort of like a majority of his ‘heart-to-heart’ conversations with Church even if he did kind of miss the jerk whenever he wasn’t around.

“I’ll go in first, how about that?”

Simmons seemed to have picked up on the reasoning as to why the two were hesitating and stepped up onto the ramp quickly. For not the first time since they’d began this little road trip, Tucker was grateful that he’d volunteered to come along. He could be a know-it-all nerd a lot of the time, but Simmons kept the group grounded.

Considering how he had no real reason to get involved in the first place having no real connection to either Sister or Junior, it was nice to have Simmons around to balance out him and Grif.

“Thanks, Simmons.” He heard Grif mumble next to him, averting his gaze as a slight tinge of pink flashed across his tanned face for a moment.

Simmons turned back around to look at his teammate again, a slight smile on his pale face before he disappeared through the entryway.

Tucker couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the exchange.

Okay, okay. _Maybe_ the reasoning behind why Simmons had offered to come on this road trip wasn’t such a big mystery after all.

Seconds later, they heard a shocked “What the hell?” come from within the base.

The two soldiers exchanged glances before any sense of hesitation completely left their systems and they were bounding up the ramp only to find Simmons standing just within the doorway, mouth agape as he took in the scene before him.

“Whoa!” Tucker let out a whistle, “What happened here?”

The hallway leading to the ‘rec room’, or what passed as one in a dump like this, was littered with trash. Empty bottles of beer and other liquor, more than he’d _ever_ seen at the base, and plastic cups were everywhere. Along with food wrappers and what seemed to be the remains of glow sticks.

There were smears of fluorescent paint on the walls and who-knows-what-else, as he really didn’t want to examine those stains any closer, and it looked like the trail led all the way into the ‘rec room’. The mess spilled around the old couch.

It was he only piece of furniture in the place beyond the T.V. that never seemed to work, as it was constantly on the ‘snowy channel’ more often than not, so they’d started using it as a coaster.

The couch was knocked onto its back, and the T.V. was completely covered in beer bottles. Jesus, was that a tube of _lube_ sitting right out in the open?

Even _he_ wasn’t that obvious with that sort of thing. Well, okay, look in his room and you’d see some things. But, that’s why he kept it _closed_ , damn it!

And locked too, after Tucker had to have a really awkward conversation with Caboose about why one of his DVDs had two naked ladies hugging each other on the cover.

Boy, was that even _more_ uncomfortable with Washington glaring at him in the background. Evidently the blonde Freelancer hadn’t liked that the rookie had asked him about the video first.

Simmons’ face had turned a bright red tomato shade, and he was pretty much looking in every direction _but_ the one with the T.V. and away from Grif too. Tucker really wasn’t sure he wanted to know what was going through his head, though he felt kind of bad for the Red Team’s cyborg given the nervous way he was reacting to everything at the moment.

“Uh!” Simmons finally managed to squeak something out of his vocal chords, though it was rather high-pitched and close to breaking, “Wh—what do you think hap-happened here?”

Tucker raised an eyebrow, “Seriously. _That’s_ the first question you ask?”

The maroon-armored soldier looked sheepish, and Tucker _did_ feel a little bad for him at that point. Knowing Simmons better now, he’d probably been one of those types who’d been so obsessed with getting good grades and then getting into the army since, from what he could tell Simmons had come from a long line of military men, that he probably hadn’t had much of a chance to really _live_ life. The poor guy.

Tucker shrugged, sweeping over the inside of the base with a wave of his hand as he did so, “What _didn’t_ happen here is probably the better question. We’re talking some crazy, messed up porno party or something. An orgy even, maybe.”

“ _Here_?” The cyborg’s eyes looked about ready to bulge out of their sockets, “B—but no one lives out here. Or visits!”

“’If you build it, they will come.’” Tucker thought he’d heard that line from an old movie once, and thought it was potentially fitting for the situation they were in now in more ways than one, he’d wager. He frowned at that train of thought, looking strangely pensive, “Damn, I wish I’d thought of that.”

“Are you serious?” Simmons looked at him incredulously, his earlier discomfort forgotten in the wake of the other soldier’s ‘logic’ which made _no_ sense to him, but nothing about this situation did.

There was a sound from behind the two men that sounded like rocks colliding. They both turned towards it, and subsequently gulped at the sight of a glowering Dexter Grif.

The noise had been him grinding his teeth together as he stood there, the anger practically radiating off of him in waves.

“That damn brat.” He mumbled under his breath, his voice getting louder with every word he said, “Every single goddamned time!”

“G-Grif?” Simmons attempted, but his teammate was too busy mumbling to himself to notice.

“What were the only things I told her whenever I had to leave? Don’t embarrass the family and _don’t_ throw anymore goddamned raves!”

“Isn’t your mom both the bearded lady and the fat lady? Pretty hard to do anything embarrassing after that, dude.” Tucker tried joking to lighten the suddenly very dark atmosphere in the room.

Truthfully, he thought the whole ‘rave’ thing was more fun than embarrassing, but he _really_ didn’t want to get shot right now so he kept his mouth shut.

“What does she do the second I’m gone?” Grif was yelling now, “She throws a goddamned rave again!”

Well, that _was_ Kaikaina Grif, after all: crazy wild child and partier extraordinaire. She was pretty awesome to hang out with, all in all. At least from Tucker’s point of view.

With more speed than someone whose diet seemed to consist of as many desert goods as he could shove into his gullet and more bacon grease than a body should be capable of processing, Grif sped from the rec room and headed towards where the sleeping quarters were.

Both Simmons and Tucker winced as they heard cursing, “Not here!” and the occasional door slamming before a still very angry-looking Grif came barreling back into the room and headed back out of the base again.

“Grif! Where are you going?” Simmons hurried to follow his friend, Tucker close behind.

Given Grif’s response, it was a pretty good guess that the base was empty.

“To find my dumb-as-fuck sister!” The Hawaiian didn’t even turn around, his voice carrying over his shoulder as he stormed across the field towards the caves, “If she’s not dead yet, I swear I’m going to kill her!”

*****

The two gave Grif a wide berth during their trek.

Simmons swore he could see smoke curling over the top of the orange-armored soldier’s head, though it was probably a trick of the imagination given how pissed off his body language was. The only time he’d ever seen smoke coming off of a person before was in the early days after the initial cyborg operation.

Sometimes, he’d still panic about that when only partially awake. His mind often played tricks on him when he was looking at his arm or another part of his altered body sleepily, though thankfully it was no longer an issue due to recent improvements made to Sarge’s original design.

For once, he was somewhat grateful that his father’s long absences and lack of anything resembling a familial interest meant that he didn’t have to deal with ‘sibling’ problems. Yes, he had often wondered what it would be like to have a brother or sister during his rather lonely childhood. But, when he saw things like this, he wasn’t sure if he’d really missed out on something or not anymore.

Granted, he knew Grif actually cared for his little sister a lot. He wouldn’t have come back here if he didn’t. He wouldn’t have gotten so mad over her antics in the first place if he didn’t love her.

The only time the lazy-ass ever put his all into something seemed to be for her benefit and now, on occasion, for his teammates when push came to shove, a subtle development Simmons had noticed over the years but never spoke up about. So, he figured that there was a pretty large bond between the two Grif siblings that he’d never really understand as an only child.

…But he also wondered if it would be worth all of the stress. Hell, sometimes _he_ wanted to let loose and strangle someone because of all of the crazy antics of the idiots around him. Present company included. If he’d grown up with that kind of stuff happening as a little kid, he was pretty certain he would have had constant ulcers.

And boy, did Grif seem pissed now.

He hadn’t seen him this angry since they’d seen the surveillance footage of Kaikaina’s physical with Doc from their earlier days stationed here. Personally, he was just glad that unlike during that time the other man’s anger wasn’t partially directed towards _him_ for ogling his naked younger sister.

“Dumb question, probably, but he’s not really going to kill Kai, right?” Tucker asked in a whisper, as though he wasn’t sure he wanted Grif to hear him, “I mean, he’s her brother. It’s not like he doesn’t know how much crazy shit she gets into all the time.”

“Believe me, he knows.” Simmons’ mind went back to the story Grif had told him and Sarge before about Sister’s improbable underwater pregnancy, “Don’t worry. He’s _not_ going to actually kill her or anything. They’ll just yell and vent at the other for a little while.” He’d seen that well enough in their previous interactions.

Tucker frowned and looked somewhat embarrassed, Simmons swearing that he could see a tinge of color on his cheeks for a split second, “Worried? Who said anything about being worried?”

“Right.” Simmons couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the denial.

Tucker glared at the redhead in return since, oh! He could say a few choice things about the maroon-armored soldier and being in denial if he _really_ wanted to, though that might not be the best thing to do with Grif being as angry as he was currently.

A thought crossed Simmons’ mind again as he reflected on something Tucker had said earlier, “You called her Kai.” He mumbled quietly.

“Huh?” Tucker had heard it, but he was hoping that maybe if he played dumb Simmons, who sometimes had a bit of awkwardness about him when it came to talking about others’ personal lives, might get too uncomfortable to bring up the subject again.

“Sister.” Unfortunately, apparently the damn science nerd was in one of his analytical-evaluation moods, “You called her Kai.”

“I did?” He tried to play it off, “Well, that _is_ her real name.”

“No. It’s a nickname based around her real name.” Simmons stared at him pointedly, “I’ve only ever heard Grif call her that.”

Uh-oh. Busted.

Tucker glanced towards Grif ahead of them, biting his lip nervously and praying the orange-armored slob didn’t have super-hearing or anything.

“Your point?” He asked as calmly as he could, already knowing where the conversation was going.

“Have you slept with her?”

Simmons blushed as he asked it, and the directness of his question momentarily stunned the other soldier.

He blinked, eyes wide, before emphatically shaking his head, “No!”

Simmons looked unconvinced, and it wasn’t as if Tucker could blame him. He _was_ irresistible to the ladies, after all, and it’s not like Sister was all that picky with her partners, anyways.

What annoyed him the most about the topic, though, was that he could feel his cheeks heating up, “L-look, it’s not like I never wanted to, or couldn’t! Or anything like that! You’ve seen her! The chick is _fine_ , and wild, and loose. And I love them like that!”

Wow, so probably not helping his “ _I’ve never tapped that_ ” line by saying that stuff.

“Haven’t _you_ ever wondered what it would be like? You stared at her an awful lot when were stationed here.”

Simmons’ face turned bright tomato red again, and he looked down quickly. Before he could stop himself, he was replaying that surveillance video footage in his head.

_Dark hair. Tanned skin naked and oil-slicked. Body contorting into positions he hadn’t even thought a human was physically capable of…_

Yes, the redhead had stared at her an awful lot and imagined things. That footage replaying in his head again and again.

Simmons would never tell _anyone_ , though, that the beautiful, flawless Hawaiian female in his mind’s eye would transform in mere seconds into _Grif_. Extreme flaws, scars, and all, but just as wondrous to him. All the more so for those things even.

The cyborg did not even want to think of how he wondered about that, how the footage would turn into a shaded canyon from his memory. How he wondered if they’d gone further in their explorations that day if Grif would have proven to be just as flexible as his sister was, if he’d open his mouth just so and tilt his head slightly if he was touched the same way.

They had both been in denial that that day had even happened, had been so suddenly frantic throughout the whole thing that Simmons hadn’t had a chance to savor anything at all. All he had were the flashes of sensation, the hinting that led to fantasized imaginings, the desire to touch and feel again that never really left him despite his subsequent denial of it.

No, best not to think on that too much again.

Thankfully, Tucker wasn’t waiting for a verbal response from Simmons and didn’t seem to notice the sudden odd tension in the other man’s frame.

“But, I mean, as much as I wanted to, I fought the urge.”

“Why?” Simmons’ voice was strained still, but he was getting better at squashing those familiar feelings down.

Both he and Grif had agreed it was better to maintain the status quo afterwards, to not go down that road. Act like it had never happened, and it would almost be like it never really had. Sometimes, he almost believed it, although the scary thing was he didn’t really _want_ to.

But, at the same time, Simmons was afraid of losing the one damn thing that made life bearable for him. Even if that thing happened to be a lazy-ass idiot.

Trying to keep his attention on the Tucker issue was helping him to refocus again, slowly but surely.

“Because she was underage at the time.” The teal soldier sighed, “I might say a lot of things, and I might want to do even more, but I’ve got some principles.”

“Oh, I see.” Simmons blinked, honestly surprised and somewhat impressed by Tucker’s response.

“So we agreed to just be make-out buddies until she turned legal.”

And the other shoe fell. Simmons couldn’t help but roll his eyes and smirk slightly at that logic, “Real classy of you to do.”

“I know, right? It was really hard too!” Tucker said, “Because she’s _so_ hot _and_ loose! Bow-chicka-bow-wow!”

“Your self-restraint is admirable.” Simmons couldn’t help but chuckle slightly.

“Whatever, dude.” Tucker grinned, “I deserve a medal for that shit, and you know it too. All bets are off now though. Pretty sure she turned eighteen.”

Simmons glanced up at Grif, “Hmm, might want to keep that to yourself.” He muttered.

 _”Good point.”_ Tucker thought.

He definitely did not want to get a bullet lodged in his ass before then. It would probably really kill the mood.

He had to find Junior first, anyways. The role of a parent was a harsh one, even if chicks really did like kids. Or dogs, really. With Junior, it was kind of interchangeable sometimes in regards to how women viewed him.

The three simulation troopers had, at some point, approached the cave. Grif stopped his angry pacing then, took a deep breath, and yelled.

“Kai! If you’re in there, you better get out in three seconds or I swear I’m dragging you out and you know how much I hate bats!” He paused, “And dragging things. Work in general, really.”

Silence. Nothing moved and quiet descended on the canyon following Grif’s outburst.

He stood there, breathing in wheezing gasps as if the effort had overexerted him. Which, knowing his smoking and eating habits, it probably did.

After a few tense moments of nothing happening, Simmons stepped forward to place a consoling hand on his teammate’s shoulder, “Grif, maybe Lopez really—”

A pained look crossed the other man’s features, and Simmons could tell that he was begging him silently not to finish the sentence. He frowned, not sure how to approach the subject further but feeling like he had to do something still.

A shadow fell across them from the cave’s entrance, and whatever Simmons was going to say or do completely fled his mind at the sight of the yellow-armored figure standing before them.

Sister raised her hand in slight greeting, “Took you long enough, asshole.” She said to her brother.

“Who told you to run away and fake enlist in the army anyway, you dumb brat?”

Then the two were hugging tightly as if they hadn’t seen each other for years. Who knew? So many things had happened, maybe it did feel that way to them. It was as if the rest of the world had disappeared for the Grifs.

Simmons stepped back. He’d probably never understand the way the two siblings showcased how they cared, but he was happy for their reunion all the same.

“Blarg!”

A small shape that had popped up by his feet startled him, and Simmons jumped slightly at the miniature teal-with-blue-trim alien running past him.

“Junior!” Tucker’s cry was ecstatic as the young creature jumped incredibly high for his tiny stature and right into his parent’s ( _mother’s_ ) waiting arms.

Simmons smiled slightly and shook his head. Okay, that reunion was a little weirder to wrap his head around, but he did admit that it was touching all the same.

Fuck it! He swore he wasn’t going to cry.

Since no one was paying any attention to him now, he hastily put his helmet back on to cover up the sudden redness of his eyes.

Damn canyon dust.

*****

“So, I don’t really think your Spanish friend knows how to party that well, because he totally fired a rocket into the base and you’re not supposed to do that unless you’re outside. _Everyone_ knows that.” Kai was saying, stretched out on the grass next to her brother.

“Uh-huh.” Grif probably could have tried explaining to her that Lopez had been trying to kill her and _not_ party, but he’d long since given up on trying to convince his sister that they were in a war.

Hell, Caboose and Donut nearly got killed all the time and they had actually officially signed up for the army. _Why_ , for the life of him, he could never figure out, yet they still went about their happy ways without a care in the world.

Besides, since Sarge was trying to reactivate Lopez again now that there was a steady “truce” between the teams on account of all of it being one big fucked up lie they’d all been pawns of, it might be better in the long run for Kai to _not_ know that little detail.

Though, now that Grif thought about it, things seemed oddly friendly between Washington and Donut despite the shooting, so maybe he was worried for nothing?

“So, after I came to a couple months later, no one was around and I got pretty lonely.” She plucked a blade of grass absent-mindedly, “It reminded me of how I felt when you got drafted, Dex. Everything was way too quiet at home. No one to yell at me for doing dumb shit.”

“Kai.” He started, then stopped himself and frowned, the guilt gnawing at him.

What could he say to that, really? It always sucked that the orange-armored soldier seemed to be pulled away for really stupid, pointless, and trivial shit. Getting to be the only person who was drafted to fight in a fake war. How fucked up was _that_? He really couldn’t change any of that shit either.

“But, then the little guy,” she motioned to Junior, who was running in happy circles around Tucker’s legs a little farther away from where they were sitting, “Tucker’s dog-kid or whatever? He showed up and it was a party all over again! Had to drink all the booze though, just so that he couldn’t get to it.”

“Wow. Babysitter of the year.”

“Well, he’s alive, right?”

“You’re eighteen! What the hell were you doing drinking in the first place?”

“What are you now, a cop?” She glared at him in mock suspicion, “You’re not supposed to tell cops anything!”

“Geez, the one piece of advice I give you and you twist it around into something ugly.”

“There were a few other guys who came by too. I think they really _were_ cops. Asking questions all about you guys.”

“Really?”

So the UNSC _had_ tried tracking them down here after their stint with Carolina? He filed that under information he should probably confide to Simmons with later. Seemed like the type of thing the nerd would want to know about and analyze, if Grif bothered remembering it that is.

“Since I was lonely and missed you guys, and the little dog-kid missed Tucker, I asked them who I’d have to blow in order to get a transfer. Because I figured I’d already blown pretty much everybody else and--”

“Yeah, yeah. Wait, _what_?!?”

Leave it to his little sister to make him forget possibly important details.

Yeah, Grif wouldn’t really admit it to anyone, but he really _had_ missed these family talks of theirs. Even if they made him debate whether he wanted to hug the girl or throttle her all at the same time.

*****

“Do you think they’ll mind?”

Tucker looked up at Simmons thoughtfully, hand clasped around one of Junior’s claw-like appendages, “Who? Sarge and Washington?”

A nod, “Well, we _are_ bringing two more people back with us.”

A shrug was his reply as Tucker moved to join Sister and Grif at the ridge leading to the canyon exit. He seemed pretty uninterested in the whole thing.

“Well, Washington doesn’t seem to care much with the whole war thing to begin with since we’re all on a ‘truce’ now. He tolerates me and Caboose, so he must be pretty patient. Sarge seems pretty old-school. I don’t think he’d mind having a girl and a kid around.”

In a way, Simmons supposed that was true.

“Even if they do mind, I say fuck ‘em! It’s not like I didn’t explain what we were going to do in the note.”

The cyborg wasn’t quite sure what leaving a note had to do with showing up with two extra people when you didn’t properly ask permission to do so in the first place. But, at the moment, the joy in all the reunions and the knowledge that they were going _home_ again made Simmons for once not give one iota about his logical and reasoning side.

 _“I guess to Tucker it makes perfect fucking sense.”_ He thought, and left it at that.

The second they were by the ridge and beginning their ascent, Grif turned to Simmons and latched onto his arm.

“Simmons!” He whined, “I really need a cigarette now.”

The Dutch-Irishman scowled in annoyance, eyebrows furrowed, “Damn it, Grif! Can’t you at least wait until we get back to the Warthog?”

Okay, okay. He’d actually forgotten to bring the cigarettes with him. More like forgotten them on purpose, but Simmons was hoping Grif wouldn’t figure that part out. Ever. He could just blame it on the impromptu road trip later.

“But, today’s been _really_ stressful and I could use the release. Plus, a celebratory smoke for finding Kai and Junior.”

“Not until we get back.” The other man said firmly.

“Why not now?”

_“Shit, think of something fast.”_

“Snacking is better for stress relief and celebrations, right?”

Grif looked at him suspiciously, “Your point being?”

“I have more of those snack cakes in the Warthog.” He lifted up two fingers on his gloved hand, “You can have two.”

“Really?” Grif’s face brightened, and the other man nodded, glad the blow-out had been averted, “With the beer I smuggled in, it’s going to be a party!”

From behind them, Sister let out a loud “Whoop!” to which Grif turned back and glared at her, “You’re only eighteen. No more drinking!”

“You suck, asshole!”

“I swear, Kai, I will leave your ass here!”

“You brought beer with you?” Simmons’ eyes narrowed, “On a road trip when you’re the driver?”

“Relax, Simmons. I didn’t drink any. I’m not _that_ irresponsible.” Grif said, “I figured I’d need it after this whole thing was over with. You can take the wheel for a little while. I figure I’ll be sober again in the week it’ll take us to get back with the way you drive.”

“That’s beside the point!” The redhead sputtered, trying to ignore the jab at his driving habits, “It’s against regulations!”

“Simmons, Simmons.” The orange-armored soldier chided playfully, “When are you going to get that I think the regulations can suck it?”

“You could at least still follow _some_ protocol!”

“You could at least not ‘forget’ to bring the cigarettes all the time since you said you’d hold onto them for me.” Grif looked at him pointedly, “So, let’s just call it even this time.”

“That’s beside the point!” Simmons was getting quite annoyed now, his face turning red, “You’re still ruining your health, jackass!”

“Lalala. I can’t hear you!” Grif put his hands over his ears and gave Simmons a taunting grin.

This, of course, caused the two of them to begin an epic shouting match as the group slowly moved their way out of the familiar box-shaped canyon.

Behind them, Tucker whistled softly, watching the two bicker.

Yep, he’d definitely gotten it right with the old married couple bit.

His left hand was still clenched tightly around his son’s. The Blue Team member wasn’t quite sure which one of them didn’t want to let go more now that they’d found each other again.

His other hand was suddenly occupied as well, and he turned to see Kai’s pretty face in his vision. The knowing smirk in her eyes matched his own.

 _“Oh, yeah, I guess we have a lot of catching up to do too.”_ Tucker thought, suddenly very eager for the return road trip to begin.

“They’re totally crazy for one another. My brother and that gray nerd-guy.” It was more of a statement on Kai’s part, rather than a question.

He nodded, “Have been for a while, I think.”

Junior, smart kid that he was, picked up on the trail of conversation pretty quickly, “Bow-chicka-honk-honk!”

Tucker grinned, shaking his head, “Not yet, I don’t think, Junior. Give it some time though and it’ll happen. Trust me.”

“When it does, we should totally film it! I bet it will be _hot_!”

“Yeah, yeah. Wait, _what_?!?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my favorite story I’ve written, but I am oddly fond of it since it helped encourage me to keep up with fic writing in general. And it seemed fitting to start this collection off with a throwback fic (immediately followed by a more recent one)! :D
> 
> Anything else following this story will be a lot more recent though, and hopefully a bit better as a result! :)


	2. Dine and Dash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I don’t think anyone_ forced _you to eat that entire wedding cake.”_
> 
> _“Well they shouldn’t have made it a two hour ceremony.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

Richard “Dick” Simmons was really going to lose it. He just _knew_ it was only a matter of time by this point.

Probably a lot sooner rather than later, now that he thought about it.

Okay, he wasn’t _so_ enamored with his work anymore despite still thinking it was important to have a good work ethic. Mostly on account of how it really didn’t seem like anything he did was ever really acknowledged one way or the other by anyone on his team.

So, he was actually somewhat looking forward to some time off, but because he is Simmons the universe wasn’t going to just give him a decent break. For starters, the _one_ time he had managed to get any type of leave or vacation, it had ended up somehow happening to coincide with Grif’s.

That wasn’t so terrible, really. He had sort of been expecting that considering they had joined the army at around the same time apparently.

No, the worst thing about that whole fact had definitely been Donut’s gushing about how that was just so _“romantic”_ and so _“them”_ after the lightish-red armored soldier had found out.

Coincidences were _not_ romantic, and there was no _“them”_ either.

Just a fat and lazy teammate in orange armor who couldn’t bother moving out of the way whenever Simmons was around, and who seemed to go out of his way to never have to do an ounce of constructive work around the base even if his teammates begged or Sarge threatened him with bodily harm.

Someone who Simmons could talk to for hours about shit no one else cared to talk to him about. Even if Grif didn’t really care about a lot of it either, hey, at least he _listened_. Someone who he couldn’t help but smile around even when they often argued.

There was _totally_ nothing there at all that would constitute any thought of _“togetherness”_ even if they were often together all the time or seeking the other out when they weren’t. Nope.

The redhead had always assumed, as was only natural given their differing tastes and everything, that Grif would pretty much want to go anywhere else where Simmons wasn’t in his free time. Grif considered Simmons a nerd after all, and the cyborg therefore wouldn’t drag him to any “nerd” things even though he suspected Grif would actually like some of them at least.

Which _wasn’t_ that upsetting to dwell on, really. Simmons had always been used to people _not_ wanting to hang around him growing up.

Simmons should have just been glad at the prospect of getting the chance to have some leave time himself. Certainly not thinking on being alone again with nothing to do because it probably wouldn’t be _as_ much fun without even a tubby asshole mocking him over stuff.

But Grif had, surprisingly, thrown all of Simmons’ expectations out the window.

When he had gotten the leave notice, the maroon-armored soldier was thinking about how he could _always_ say there was too much work to do around the base even though a lot of the time he was seriously debating shooting either himself or someone else to alleviate his boredom there.

The second the Hawaiian had processed the announcement about their leave as Simmons was contemplating inwardly just losing his free days so he could save a bit of face, Grif glanced over at him disinterestedly and shrugged, “Any ideas where we should go?”

Simmons blanched, “Wha—what? You mean,” he paused, brain having to take a few seconds to process what he had just heard, “You want to go on vacation together?”

The redhead tried not to react too much at the prospect of being included, feeling the sudden urge to sniffle.

He lost that about two seconds later when Grif once again shrugged, “Yeah, well, it would make things easier, wouldn’t it?” he remarked, “Plus, it’s kind of sad to go somewhere all by yourself, dude.”

All perfectly logical reasons and, really, Simmons shouldn’t feel disappointed or awkward and definitely not upset that he couldn’t get a special invite from a teammate who barely counted as a friend sometimes.

Who would want his company specifically, after all?

“Oh.” He didn’t let his shoulders slump too much, and he felt slightly proud.

“Yeah,” Grif was chomping on a burrito he had procured from who knows where. Seriously, he had so many hiding spots in his armor for food, Simmons didn’t want to even think too much on where some of those compartments had to be located or what condition they were in now, “As long as you didn’t plan to go somewhere boring and nerdy as fuck, I’d be fine with it.”

Simmons bristled, “I don’t go anywhere nerdy or boring, fatass!”

“Really?” Grif looked at him incredulously, “I bet you were planning to go camp out at a museum.”

“W—well, if there happened to be one in the area.”

“Nerd.” Grif looked triumphant at the trailed off admission from his teammate, then shook his head emphatically, “Which is definitely why you _should_ hang out with me on vacation.” He informed him as if this made perfect sense, “We will _not_ be going to any museums in the Vegas Quadrant.”

“V—Vegas Quadrant?” Simmons hadn’t even thought of that as a possible travel destination.

“Well,” and here Grif tore off a huge chunk of his food and pointedly ignored the grimace on his freckled teammate’s face, “I _would_ have said we should go to Hawaii because you could definitely use some color and it would be nice to show you around.”

Simmons was way too shocked at the fact that Grif had actually seemed to put some thought into all of this and had been thinking of even showing him around where he had grown up to counter that he would have only burned horribly in the sun as Grif continued.

“But, since apparently Earth is too expensive to get back to, Vegas Quadrant is a good alternative.” He concluded, not noticing Simmons’ reaction to his earlier remark at all as he listed some of the reasons why he thought that was the case, “Nightlife, gambling—”

“All you can eat buffets.” Simmons interjected wryly, just knowing that was going to come up next given the gleam in Grif’s dark eyes that only ever came about when he was contemplating food.

Grif grinned, “Yes, that’s definitely a perk too.”

So that was how the two of them had decided where to go on leave.

*****

Where they had ended up though was most certainly _not_ the Vegas Quadrant.

A fact that Grif brought up just a few seconds after the transport had landed for urgent emergency maintenance and to check on the condition of some evidently volatile cargo. Yeah, probably would have liked to have known about that before boarding.

Only, Grif’s particular words of choice about the detour were with more expletives.

Simmons frowned, not really liking the mishap either but knowing there wasn’t too much they could do about it.

Besides, while the idea of having some fun in the Vegas Quadrant and getting away from work had sounded quite appealing all things considered, he also had been dreading the later altercations that would follow Grif inevitably getting them kicked out of several all-you-can-eat buffets and impromptu body cavity searches.

Not sure why he had thought of that one, but it had popped up in his nightmare scenarios about what could go wrong on the trip way more than the cyborg would have expected.

Truthfully, the planet they were stuck on didn’t seem _too_ horrible in that kind of boring, you-just-don’t-think-of-it-much-either-way sort of deal. It was a quiet little colony outpost world, and something about its unassuming streets and sights reminded Simmons _somewhat_ of his hometown.

You know, his hometown minus all of the repressed feelings, the asshole father who always belittled him and made him feel worthless, and the jerks who tried stuffing him into his locker and mocked him for trying to tell them later why that wouldn’t have been physically possible.

The redhead honestly didn’t know whether to tear up at the sudden rush of nostalgia or get the fuck out of there just then, but leaving wasn’t actually an option since their transport still needed to be repaired.

With the prospect of his buffet dreams being ruined, Grif looked likely to blow a fuse ( _irony, that, considering he was the one who was a cyborg_ ). So, Simmons tried focusing on the positives instead while glancing at a directory nearby.

“Oh, look! They have a museum that focuses on the history of record keeping here!”

“Simmons,” Grif whined, grabbing on his extended arm before he could lower it from what he had been pointing at with all the force of his considerable weight behind the gesture, “I’m in Hell.”

*****

It took a _long_ time to pry Grif off of the floor after he’d collapsed there in the fetal position, with Simmons having to give numerous assurances that, no, he would not force his chubby teammate to visit any museums while they were stuck here.

They were going to be on the planet for a few days at least. Transports didn’t come around too quickly, so they would probably just have to wait for their original one to be fixed. Which meant finding a hotel in the meantime, at least.

Of course, for as quiet a place as this was, naturally they had shown up on the same week that some big event had been scheduled and there was only one room available for rent in the entire outpost.

With just one bed.

Simmons was about to protest this when Grif, surprisingly logical again due to the fact that this involved getting the chance to nap quickly, told him that they did in fact need a place to crash.

The maroon-armored soldier agreed glumly, but reasoned he could probably crash on the couch or floor if nothing else.

Only for the room to be practically made up of just the king size bed, with hardly any space at all to even maneuver around it to get to the bathroom.

“I call the left side.” Grif announced without preamble, jumping onto the mattress without so much as a care and promptly shutting his eyes.

Simmons was gaping at the sight, “How can you be so calm about this?” he asked, voice having gone shrill due to his disbelief.

His teammate cracked one eye open to glance up at him, “One,” and here he brought up a finger to further illustrate his point, “I am fucking tired, so right now I just want to sleep.”

The Hawaiian shoved another finger up before Simmons could reply that he _always_ wanted to sleep, “Two: we’ve shared a room at base, so it really isn’t that different if you think about it.”

“Except we still had two beds and a line that clearly marked our personal spaces!” Simmons countered, not sure how Grif couldn’t tell why this situation was different.

“That was what that was for?” Grif frowned at the declaration, “I thought Donut had been trying to redecorate again because lines were in.”

“Why would he…?” Simmons could feel a headache coming on.

“Sorry, buddy, but I’ve been using underneath your bed to hide extra food and booze for _years_.”

Grif grinned at the spluttering, incoherent noise that came out of Simmons’ mouth following that confession.

“B—besides,” Simmons tried in vain to bring the conversation back to what was going on now while making a mental note to check his bed when they got back to throw everything he knew Grif had hid under there away, “That isn’t—“

The orange soldier cut him off, rising up slightly from the bed to grab the duffle bag Simmons was still carrying from his hand and throw it against the opposite wall haphazardly. Simmons was about to yell at his teammate since he had important shit in there ( _damn it!_ ), when Grif pulled his arm and he was lying face first on the bed as well, head smooshed uncomfortably into a pillow.

As he was trying to muffle out curse words around a mouthful of feathery cushion, Grif lay back down next to him.

“Just quit spazzing for once and _rest_ , all right, Simmons?” He said with a long-suffering sigh, “For what’s supposed to be a vacation all you did was panic while prepping for it.”

Simmons turned his head then to glare at him, “Yeah, and things haven’t exactly gone too great since then either!”

He was so tempted to remind him about how Grif had been shaking and mumbling to himself just a few hours ago upon getting stuck on this planet. But, Grif started talking before he had the chance, as if knowing exactly what Simmons was thinking of saying to counter his argument.

“Look on the plus side, we got a room at least.” Grif reasoned, and considering his earlier insistence about how this whole getting stuck on a backwoods planet was so horrible, his calmness and trying to look on the reasonable side of things now was infuriating.

The orange-armored soldier didn’t seem to be nearly as upset about the bed situation as he should be. He even seemed _happy_ , but that was most likely only because the lazy fuck could sleep anywhere.

“We’re sharing a bed!” Simmons hissed back, trying to bring the logic that seemed to slipping from the tan-skinned man’s mind back into play.

Grif shrugged, “Again, not a big deal.” He told him in that frustratingly mature tone, “It’s a king-size, so plenty of room.”

Simmons sighed, knowing he couldn’t really argue with that, before thinking of something else along those lines and smirking triumphantly, “Well, yeah, but with one of us being you—”

A pillow was thrown at the cyborg’s head, “Shut up and go to sleep, nerd.” His teammate joked back.

By the time Simmons had finally managed to fall asleep, Grif’s hand had somehow found its way to rest on Simmons’ hip heavily while he slumbered, and Simmons ended up finding out that when Grif’s other arm was outstretched it was actually a pretty good pillow.

Neither of them mentioned that when they woke up though.

*****

Simmons had decided to leave the hotel to check out the museum he had found out about earlier. Not surprisingly, Grif had opted to stay at the hotel and sleep in more. Honestly, Simmons was shocked he had even wanted to go to the Vegas Quadrant before, considering how he seemed quite content with just getting to sleep in late without being threatened by their shotgun-wielding sergeant for a change.

By the time he was ready to head back, Simmons was in better spirits. He had learned all sorts of fascinating information on record keeping that he couldn’t wait to share with his friend even if he knew full well he would be mocked for what he considered “fascinating” in the process, and their transport was also apparently nearly done with its maintenance a bit earlier than expected.

He was just about to head inside when he saw a huge gathering outside of the hotel. Quite a large group of smiling people surrounded a very happy-looking couple, with rows of flowers all around and harp music filling the air.

Simmons couldn’t help but smile slightly at the sight.

He had always been a sucker for events like weddings and other more open displays of affection, even if he would probably never get to have them himself. The cyborg realizing at the same time now what had most likely been the large event that had forced him and Grif to share a room here in the first place.

Not wanting to intrude on a romantic scene he had definitely _not_ been invited to, he hurried inside and was attempting to retrieve the key card to their hotel room from his pocket when—

“Simmons!”

He paused at the sound of Grif’s voice coming from a reception hall just outside of the lobby, frowning when the voice continued calling him over insistently. It made sense that, if Grif had found something he thought was interesting, he wouldn’t bother leaving it.

It looked like, judging by how empty the place appeared, that most of the hotel staff were out attending the wedding. But, he really didn’t want Grif’s lazy yelling to get them in trouble with any of the few staff who were maybe still inside or any of the other hotel patrons.

Simmons sighed, walking over and stopping in is tracks suddenly at the sight before him in the space. The reception hall had obviously been set up for the wedding guests.

The same type of flowers filled the space in elaborate decorative set-ups Donut would kill to see. There were perfectly aligned tables and chairs with beautiful place holders on which handwritten calligraphy had been penned, all set up and waiting for people to come in and find their spots. There was even a buffet near another table closer to the back’s emergency exit where the wedding cake was with a tower of waiting champagne flutes nearby.

The buffet, though, had massive holes in its food trays as if a wild animal had gone through the space. A wild animal that had evidently thought utensils and plates a waste of time. That particular scene decidedly _not_ looking as if it belonged in such an elegant space.

Dread was pooling in Simmons’ gut as he tore his gaze from the buffet to get a better view of the cake.

Which is where he found Grif, his tan face covered in white icing and most of the dessert around him already gone upon further inspection.

“Grif, what the fuck are you doing?” Simmons hissed, racing over to his friend.

The Hawaiian grinned, brown eyes shining as he swept the entire room with his arms, “Check out the free food, Simmons! This place is fucking awesome!”

“It’s not for you, moron!” Simmons shrieked, “It’s for the wedding outside!”

He really should _not_ have to explain this at all.

Grif frowned, glancing past Simmons and outside of the reception hall at the mention of the wedding, “Didn’t see their names on it.”

“There are place holders on the fucking tables!” Simmons protested, brain about to explode, “Plus, a giant banner in front of the doors!”

“Not _at_ the buffet though.” Grif reasoned calmly, shrugging indifferently, “Anyone would make that mistake.”

“No, they wouldn’t!” The cyborg argued back, “You just did because you’re a fatass, fatass!”

Simmons realized it was probably stupid to have said the same thing twice, but he was way too stressed at the moment to think about it.

Fortunately, Grif didn’t seem to notice as he still seemed to be contemplating the current turn of events himself.

He sighed, looking over at the near hyperventilating Simmons pityingly as if he just wasn’t seeing the logic here, “Well, why are they taking so long then? They’ve been out there for at least two hours.”

“Because some ceremonies run long!” Simmons stamped his foot for added emphasis, “That doesn’t mean you can just come in here and eat all their food!”

His teammate shook his head, “Clearly, you need to read up on dibs, Simmons.”

He spluttered, “That doesn’t even—“

Grif was ignoring him at the moment though, staring at the nearly completely devoured cake just then. It must have been huge considering the size of the table, but somehow it looked as if there were barely two slices left now. Grif’s appetite could honestly be terrifyingly awe-inspiring if Simmons wasn’t tempted to strangle him for it at the moment, “Though I suppose maybe the cake should have been a giveaway.”

“You _think_?” Trying to reason with Grif was going to make the redhead burst a blood vessel one of these days, he just knew it.

“Eh. I get hungry when I’m bored.” He shrugged, reaching out with his hand to pick at a piece of remaining cake still, “I’m saving the bride some calories. That should count as a gift.”

Simmons couldn’t take it, grabbing one of the nearby champagne flutes and downing its contents in one go because, _fuck it_ , a missing drink was the last of their worries at this point.

He then turned back to Grif to continue yelling at him, only to find the tan-skinned man standing right next to him. Before Simmons could get any words out of his mouth, his teammate suddenly shoved a piece of wedding cake into it. His hand was still on Simmons’ face as he waited for him to react.

Simmons blinked, caught off-guard at the sudden action and not able to say anything around the cake in his mouth. He knew some of it was on his nose and around his lips too. The redhead hoped he wouldn’t end up snuffing up cake the next time his nose decided to reflexively inhale.

There was an odd, unrecognizable look in Grif’s eyes as he waited for Simmons’ reaction. His hand was still close and his index finger was absentmindedly stroking Simmons’ cheek, probably smearing even more vanilla icing there in the process.

Simmons chewed and swallowed, brain only marginally processing that the cake was _delicious_. The cyborg was so shocked and red-faced over everything, and so much in a daze following that, that he couldn’t even bring himself to yell when Grif finally lowered his arm.

That bewilderment broke somewhat when Grif put the remainder of the cake in Simmons’ hand.

“Now you feed that to me, Simmons.” He instructed, as if all of this made complete sense.

“Wha—?” Simmons held the cake up to eye level, still trying to process this current turn of events and failing badly at it.

Grif had fed him wedding cake, and he apparently wanted him to do the same.

The still organic part of his face went even redder at the realization, his confusion growing even more and he was fairly certain the machinery that acted as his heart now was probably close to burning out even more than when he had been yelling before.

That was what people did once they got married, wasn’t it?

So, why was Grif—?

Grif sighed, becoming impatient at how long it was taking the wheels inside Simmons’ brain to turn.

He grasped Simmons’ hand and brought it to his mouth, eating the cake from Simmons’ outstretched hand. Simmons only now realizing it was his still human one.

The redhead’s face was as hot as a furnace now, and he was fairly certain his legs were going to turn to jelly. Especially when Grif used his tongue to get at the icing left behind on his fingers.

Grif hugged him following that, which was a good thing considering Simmons’ mind was going a mile a minute and he felt oddly faint.

“Not too bad a practice run.” He murmured near the pale man’s ear.

“What—?”

But, before Simmons could properly ask what Grif meant by that, there were shouts and cursing coming from behind them, signifying that the wedding party had finally come in and was just now seeing the carnage.

Grif laughed. Damn it, the cyborg couldn’t help but admit he had a good one even when Simmons was trying very hard to stay furious at him for this shit! He gripped Simmons’ hand in his own, running and pulling the confused soldier along with him and away from the rather rightfully angry mob now hot on their heels.

Grif did, in fact, make it up to the couple later on by paying for a replacement party, but only at Simmons’ insistence because he really didn’t want to feel guilty by association.

They ended up having to hide out until the transport was ready to leave. Still, their leave had certainly been an event filled distraction from the boring everyday routine of work at Red Base at the very least.

Their vacation ended up being cut short, as they were taken back to base given the transport’s still continued maintenance issues. So, it looked like it would be quite a while before they would finally get the chance to actually get to the Vegas Quadrant.

On the ride back, Grif sat next to a still very dumbfounded and shocked Simmons, holding his hand the entire way as he realized it would definitely be a bit longer yet before the cyborg could process everything that had happened. That was when the Hawaiian noticed the smear of icing still on the other man’s face.

He leaned over and put his lips to the spot on Simmons’ cheek, licking it clean a second later. Grinning as he pulled away and Simmons blushed even more.

“You know, that cake was pretty good.” He remarked contemplatively, talking both to Simmons and to himself, “But, we should definitely go with chocolate cake for ours.”

“Yeah, yeah.” It took Simmons a few seconds given the haze of confusion he was still in to really process what his teammate had just said then, his eyes lingering still on their entwined hands, “Wait, _what_?”

It would be a little while later for the proper proposal to happen too, but the response Grif would get would more than be worth the wait.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I attended a family wedding recently and ended up getting the whole “wedding cake” commentary from Grif and Simmons in my head, so naturally this story ended up getting written down as a result! XD Not sure how I feel about this one exactly, but it was complete so I figured I would share it here regardless. :) Thank you, as always, for taking the time to read this! :D


	3. Driving Lessons and Naps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When Sarge and Washington are off having a team leader meeting, the others at Blood Gulch are left to their own devices. For Donut, that means trying to teach Caboose to drive the Warthog for some reason. For Lopez, it means just trying to avoid everyone to no avail. For Grif, it means trying to convince Simmons to nap._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~Canon Divergent After Season 10
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

With one final twist of the wrench in his hand, the bolt was firmly in place.

Lopez peered at his work with a critical eye, checking over every detail once more. The paneling over the power conduit no longer looked as if it had been slammed into repeatedly by a tank. His electronic thoughts went to Sheila, and there was even a slight electric blip where a heart would be located on a normal human body. Odd, how thinking of her could still dredge up that kind of reaction from him after all this time.

For what seemed like the billionth time, he let out what could only be described as the robot equivalent of a sigh. The robot used to keep an automated record of the exact number of sighs in his memory files, but decided after a while that the processing power he wasted on that endeavor could serve better functions. Not to mention, it had started to get him feeling even more depressed and exasperated than he usually was with his lot in life.

What had caused the damage he’d been fixing in the first place? Probably better _not_ to know in the long run.

He glanced at the skid marks in the dirt, at the mud covering the wheels of the nearby Warthog, at the slightly dented quality to some of the weaker points on the vehicle, at the Warthog-sized damage that had been done to the side of the base.

He could make some educated guesses. The fact that Caboose and Donut weren’t very subtle when it came to Caboose’s recent attempts at learning to drive also helped, though Lopez doubted the other members of either team knew what was going on thanks to his repairs.

It was best to try to know as little as possible about what the other soldiers in Blood Gulch were doing. He’d surmised that fairly quickly during his time here. The less you paid active attention to, the less likely it was you would get roped into some ill-conceived and ultimately foolhardy plan.

Besides, so long as Caboose never ran _him_ over when he was practicing his driving, Lopez had no reason to get concerned over the situation. At most, the Blue Rookie was going to set something inexplicably on fire or somehow accidently shoot a teammate, as was his track record.

No metaphorical skin or, in Lopez’s case, metal plating off his back. The repairs Lopez occasionally had to make to the bases or to the vehicle kept him occupied and often indisposed when Sarge had some “brilliant” strategy he would want his robotic creation’s help on. So, all in all, it was a plus for him in a lot of respects.

“Oh! Hey, Lopez!”

The brown-armored robot stiffened slightly at the familiar voice coming from behind him.

Lopez turned to see that Donut and Caboose were making their way towards him and the Warthog from the Red Base entrance on the opposite side of the building. He wondered briefly if the human sentiment about how if one thinks too much on a subject it will cause it to happen in reality could possibly have some strange logic to it that he wasn’t aware of.

It could be worse, he surmised. It could have been Sarge coming to get him for some terrible battle plan or errand, or to force him to listen to one of his poorly attempted “father-son” speeches that left him feeling horribly awkward and more frustrated than a robot probably should feel.

Caboose he didn’t really have much of an opinion on, especially now that their supposed “rivalry” was a moot point. Those were Caboose’s words, not his. He’d never felt remotely threatened by Caboose’s friendship and crush on Sheila. Caboose was truthfully more of a danger to the other members of Blue Team given his track record than anyone else.

He _tried_ to be friendly to Lopez now, perhaps as some homage to Sheila. But, like the others in the canyon, since the rookie didn’t know how to speak or understand Spanish there was no real line of communication between them. He often said bizarre things anyways, so Lopez more often than not tuned him out to avoid confusion and potential damage to his thought-processing units.

Donut always did try to be friendly and inclusive to his robotic teammate so, as far as Lopez was concerned, he was probably marginally fonder of him than some of the others. However, his “understanding” ( _if possible, Lopez would cringe mentally at that poor word choice_ ) of Spanish was so poor that the pink-armored soldier’s attempts at trying to translate for Lopez often had the robot wanting to just walk off during conversations. He’d done it a few times, actually. Donut kept describing him as _”shy.”_

Red Team’s robot wondered briefly if he could do it now. Just walk off and pretend he hadn’t seen or heard the two of them. He’d done that sometimes with both rookies, and both were so naïve that they hadn’t thought to take offense. In an odd sort of way, that perhaps endeared them more to Lopez comparatively.

Donut was enthusiastically waving to him now, and who knew who might be waiting at the entrance to Red Base if the Spanish-speaking robot walked in that direction. He knew the other Red Team members had been in there earlier, along with the teenaged girl. While she could actually understand him somewhat too, she also fell into the same “ _generally tuning them out for the sake of continued sanity_ ” category as Caboose.

The robot had seen Agent Washington walking that way from across the canyon but, truthfully, he liked interacting with him about as much as he did Sarge. Lopez had a new body now, but it was hard to forget that the reason why he needed one in the first place was because he’d been shot by the former Freelancer. He was honestly perplexed and intrigued by how easygoing Donut could be around the man sometimes.

Washington seemed changed now and they could interact civilly when it came to exercises and the like. Lopez could at least respect that Washington was _easily_ the most competent soldier in the canyon, but he couldn’t help but still be a bit uneasy around him still. So, he tried keeping day-to-day run-ins with Washington to a minimum.

“How’s it going?” Donut asked cheerfully as they caught up to him, though why the pink-armored soldier bothered with such pleasantries when he knew full-well he wouldn’t really understand Lopez’s response was beyond him.

“Multa. Sólo limpiar el desorden que ustedes dos hicieron anoche.” _{“Fine. Just cleaning up the mess you two made last night.”}_

He paused before adding something else to his commentary with a head tilt in Caboose’s direction.

“Yo no todos los seguros de vehículos a cubrirlo.” _{“I don't think any vehicle insurance will cover him.”}_

“Sorry that we didn’t come out here earlier to help clean up.” Lopez could almost picture Donut wincing within the confines of his helmet, “Last night we were a little distracted by putting out the fire coming from the Warthog’s radio!”

“We didn’t even have the radio on!” Caboose tried to supply helpfully.

Lopez put yet another note in his processing unit that he would _never_ let Caboose near him when he was doing maintenance.

Still, the robot was oddly touched and surprised by the apology he’d just received regardless, so much so that he was unable to think of a sarcastic response to what Caboose had just said. Normally, it seemed that everyone always took his repair skills for granted.

“But, the Warthog should be fine, no worries!” Donut was saying in way of a continued explanation, “I double-checked everything! Looks like it was an isolated fuse incident with the radio circuitry.”

“El panel de la energía que ustedes dos se estrelló en al menos doce veces no se incendió alguna manera también.” _{“The power panel you two crashed into at least twelve times didn't burst into flames somehow too.”}_ Lopez responded back, “Eso fue un puto milagro.” _{“That was a fucking miracle.”}_

“Lieutenant Scone says I’m getting better with driving now!” Caboose was excitedly bouncing on the balls of his feet, “We’re going out to practice now!”

Donut nodded in confirmation, smiling at Caboose before looking over at Lopez with a welcoming grin, “Do you want to come with us?”

There were a lot of things that Lopez would probably rather do. Getting shot again by Agent Washington came readily to mind as one of the top-tier choices. He was about to sarcastically say so when another familiar voice spoke up from behind the three of them.

“Oh, so that’s what you guys have been up to.” Grif’s tone was bored, as though he hadn’t really been that concerned in the first place.

Donut looked at the ground sheepishly, “Caboose really wanted to learn how to drive.”

His friend nodded enthusiastically, “But, it has to be a secret!”

Lopez and Grif exchanged puzzled, but rather lazy, glances. Truthfully, neither of them were really concerned about _why_ Caboose often thought the way he did.

“Why is that, Caboose?” Grif finally got up the energy to ask.

“Because…” Caboose frowned, “Because…”

“You asked Washington for permission and he said no.”

It was a pretty easy thing to guess.

The poor kid’s head fell slightly, and he had a crestfallen expression on his face under his blond hair.

“He’s getting better though!” Donut cut in, trying to encourage his friend, “Caboose thinks that once Agent Washington sees that he’ll change his mind.”

“Si él no coge vista de él de alguna manera la captura de la radio en el fuego o chocar contra un edificio de primera.” _{“If he doesn't catch sight of him somehow catching the radio on fire or crashing into a building first.”}_ Lopez muttered.

“Once I can get through a lesson without crashing, I’m going to show him!” Caboose regained his enthusiasm thanks to Donut’s support, “Everyone will be so happy and surprised. Even stupid Tucker!”

Grif wasn’t wearing his helmet, and the frown on his face was obvious.

“Please, Grif?” Donut begged dramatically, “Can you just keep quiet about it for a little while longer?”

Still, nothing came from the orange-armored man beyond the doubtful look on his features.

“Lopez knows and he hasn’t said anything yet!” Donut informed Grif, looking pointedly at their other teammate for confirmation as to what he had just told Grif.

“Eso es porque no me importa y nadie me entendería, incluso si lo hiciera decir algo.” _{“That's because I don't really care and no one would understand me even if I did say something.”}_

Grif remained silent.

“I’ll bake those Oreo cakes you like for a whole month.” Donut decided to sweeten the deal.

The orange-clad soldier grinned finally, and Donut knew at that point he had totally been played for a food bribe as was his teammate’s usual behavior. Grif had really never had any intention or inclination to rat them out, he had just been trying to milk the suspense to get something good out of it.

“Make it two months and you have a deal.”

Donut seemed to feel more relieved than annoyed at the trick and, truthfully, Donut liked baking as a pastime so he didn’t really mind the bribe, as he nodded, “Thanks, Grif!”

An orange-armored shoulder shrugged, “All that’s out here are the bases and open land, and the Warthog’s pretty indestructible. So, no skin off my back if you want to risk your life giving Caboose driving lessons.”

Donut fidgeted slightly again, looking sheepish once more, “He really _has_ gotten somewhat better now that he’s stopped mistaking the gas and brake pedals so much.”

“They really do look alike. That is so confusing!” Caboose complained loudly from next to the pink-armored man.

Grif smiled wryly and looked at Donut with a newfound sense of appreciation, “You really are a lot braver than I thought, kid.”

Lopez could just imagine that Donut’s eyes had become teary underneath his helmet, “Gee, thanks, Grif!”

He then turned to his friend from Blue Team, “Ready to get started, Caboose?”

“Sí, sólo date prisa e ir para que yo pueda seguir con mi día.” _{“Yes, just hurry up and go so that I can get on with my day.”}_

Grif turned to look at Lopez then as if he had just remembered something, “Oh, yeah, I should probably give you a head’s up, Lopez. Sarge is probably going to be looking for you later for some kind of special assignment.” He informed him before shrugging lazily again, “I didn’t really pay attention to the details.”

“Mierda.” _{“Shit.”}_

*****

That was how, when Simmons came looking for everyone later, he only found Grif resting lazily against the power panel that Lopez had fixed earlier and the Warthog long gone.

“I could have sworn I heard voices.” The maroon-armored soldier muttered, “Where did everybody go?”

His teammate gave a half-hearted shrug in reply, “Beats me.” Grif told him, “Caboose and Donut went off on their top-secret mission in the Warthog, and Lopez went with them at the last second.”

“Lopez actually _went_ with them?” Simmons repeated incredulously, “Why the fuck would he want to do that?”

Grif shrugged again, closing his eyes to block out the sun beating down on Blood Gulch, “You’d be surprised at what can motivate a man to do crazy things, Simmons. Even a robot.”

“I guess.” Simmons’ voice sounded doubtful and distant now, as though he were lost in thought.

Grif sighed and opened his eyes slightly. He knew the other man was probably thinking about whatever conversation Washington and Sarge were still having inside, his overly-anxious mind undoubtedly going a mile a minute over what the implications might be.

Fuck, Grif was rather worried too. The thought of getting dragged into some other life-threatening conflict was not a pleasant one to him either and one’s head couldn’t help but go there whenever Washington showed up to have a “chat” with their leader given the previous track record of those types of conversations.

But, he’d be damned if he was going to let that ruin his chance for a good nap now that he had actual free time for it as opposed to all the other times when he’d just shirked his duties for one. It would probably do Simmons a world of good too to do the same while he still had the chance before whatever might end up happening would inevitably happen.

“Simmons.”

The Red Team’s second-in-command turned to look down at Grif questioningly the moment he heard him say his name, just in time to see his cubby teammate’s hand clamp around his still-organic wrist.

Grif tugged down hard before Simmons could react and the Dutch Irishman lost his balance as a result, falling rather ungracefully to the ground on his posterior while his back hit the wall base behind him.

“ _Ow!_ Grif! What the fuck?” His human arm still hurt from the force of the pull a bit, and he glared at the Hawaiian next to him.

“Your overactive thinking’s making it impossible for me to relax.” Grif wasn’t looking at him, though the smirk on his face showcased just how amused he was by Simmons’ reaction, “We never get free time like this. Just enjoy it.”

The redhead frowned, though his arm no longer hurt, “But—!”

“It won’t kill you to not obsess over everything for one minute.” Grif cut off his protest, “Sooner or later, Sarge will be done with his talk with Washington and you can go back to being his sycophant just like old times.”

Simmons seemed to think for a moment. Then, he smiled slightly and leaned back against the wall in a lanky imitation of Grif’s relaxed posture.

“ _Sycophant_ , Grif?” He asked lazily after a few minutes, a teasing smirk forming on his face, “I’m impressed. I didn’t think you knew such big words.”

Grif didn’t open his eyes, but his smile widened, “Kiss-ass.”

“Dumbass.” Simmons’ smile matched his own.

The two stayed like that for a long while, falling into a comfortable silence.

They could feel their armored shoulders brushing against one another’s slightly, but neither of them moved away from the other or particularly wanted to comment on it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another part of my earlier first fic that I decided to scrap that was still Canon Divergent after Season 10! This was my first time attempting to write for Lopez, and I rather liked the interactions he had with Caboose, Donut, and Grif in the first half of the story. I thought the Grimmons moment at the end was rather cute, so I ended up deciding to post this as a short story of its own here instead of just scraping it! :D
> 
> The driving excursion trio later on get the Warthog inexplicably stuck in a ditch, and Lopez subsequently regrets deciding to come along on the road trip. Naturally. XD


	4. Scars and Metal in the Shade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The first time either of them end up seeing one another’s face after the operation has some unexpected consequences._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

“Okay. That was fucking _awesome_.”

“Tell me about it.” Simmons’ voice held a note of awe in it.

The two Red Team soldiers watched the plume of smoke from the aftermath of the explosion in silence for a while after that declaration.

They’d parked the Warthog in the shade so that they could get out and survey the outcome of their epic _The Dukes of Hazard_ reenactment in about as much cover from the excessive heat of this “futuristic” landscape as they were likely to find.

Times like this were the ones in which Dexter Grif most craved a beer, or several. Or a smoke. Or possibly some kind of non-healthy snack.

Well, he craved those things pretty much all the time anyways, but _especially_ in moments like this one.

Unfortunately, the “future” seemed to suck even worse than the present had, and he was bereft of all of his normal vices.

_Figured._

Well, there _was_ napping still. He could always do that while dreaming about how awesome that _The_ _Dukes of Hazard_ reenactment had been. With that idea planted firmly in mind, the orange-armored soldier dropped to the ground in the shade, his back leaning against the rock wall of the ditch they were in.

Oh, yeah. Grif had a _ton_ of practice with sleeping in a sitting upright position when he’d been stationed on sentry duty on top of Red Base back in the past. He smirked to himself, realizing those had probably been some of his fondest memories of Blood Gulch.

Okay, that was more than just a little sad if he dwelled on it too much.

But, hey, the Hawaiian had been drafted into some idiotic war that he failed to see any point in. He was forced to live with a homicidal sergeant who constantly kept wanting to put him in harm’s way. Not to mention there was a nerdy second-in-command who was always kissing said sergeant’s ass, a naïve rookie in pink armor who was way too bubbly for his own good, as well as a robot no one could understand and who seemed to switch sides a lot.

Grif sort of _had_ to take what he could get at times. He was honestly surprised when Simmons sat down next to him without a word.

He’d had been expecting the maroon-armored soldier to immediately revert to his usual kiss-ass self and demand that Grif get off his lazy ass so that they could get the Warthog back before Sarge realized they’d taken it out for their little joyride.

It had taken a lot of coaxing on his part to get Simmons to agree to come along in the first place. Grif had needed someone to hold the dynamite, after all, though it had been pretty obvious that the other soldier had enjoyed himself too once things were underway.

In an odd way, that was something Grif rather liked about Simmons. Sure, he could be annoying as fuck when he was trying to stay on Sarge’s good side and play soldier, but get Simmons by himself? The kiss-ass could be surprisingly good company, even with his nerdier pursuits.

Their conversations together, even though they often devolved into bickering matches, were probably some of the only positives Grif could equate to his experiences after the one-man draft. Save his sneaked-in naps, of course.

Still, the talks with the redhead kept him grounded even amidst all of the insanity and chaos they found themselves in. If Simmons wasn’t around, he’d probably have gone crazy long ago.

Briefly, he almost wondered if his teammate felt similarly at times, if that was the reason why Simmons tagged along with him on stupid assignments and continued to engage him in conversation even though he thought Grif was a _“dumbass.”_

But, then he figured that thinking about things like that was pretty stupid and pointless. Simmons would probably mock him relentlessly if he knew. That’s what he’d do if their positions were reversed: they were just teammates and barely friends in the traditional sense given their arguing and mockery of one another.

With that in mind, the orange-armored soldier decided instead to drop all random trains of thought and get to napping instead, since this seemed to be one of the rare instances where Simmons _wouldn’t_ bitch at him for it.

“I still can’t believe we did that.” The Dutch Irishman said, more to himself with a tone full of wonder, after a lengthy silence.

“That’s how you live.” Grif removed the clasps of his helmet and slowly pulled it off with a soft hiss.

He was hardly ever able to nap while on top of the base without his helmet, so he was going to make the most of this experience, “You have to do something crazy every once in a while.”

“I guess so.” Simmons’ voice was soft, and there was a thoughtful quality to it, “That definitely was fucking awesome.”

“Didn’t I tell you it would be?” Grif put the orange helmet on the ground next to him.

Simmons didn’t answer him, and he figured the conversation was over with and that Red Team’s second in command now had his thoughts elsewhere.

So, he was surprised when he turned his head slightly to see the maroon helmet fixed pointedly at him. Even through the opaque-orange visor, he could feel the intense scrutinizing regard that Simmons was currently giving his face.

Despite himself, his cheeks flushed slightly in a self-conscious manner, “ _What_ are you looking at?”

_Crap, if there’s a bat behind me I’m going to fucking scream!_

Simmons shook his head slightly, thankfully tearing his gaze away at the exact same time, “It—it’s nothing.” He managed to stammer out, clearly embarrassed at having been caught staring, “It’s just…your f—face!” He gestured helplessly, “I wasn’t expecting it.”

Grif frowned, confused and more than just a little annoyed now.

“It’s a _face_ , Simmons.” He said flatly, “We all have one. It’s not _that_ hideous.”

No, Grif would never probably describe himself as handsome or anything of the sort, but he was comfortable with his body and looks. He didn’t think he looked _that_ bad, even though the alterations Sarge had made during the surgery that had saved his life and that had made Simmons a cyborg had taken some getting used to.

Simmons shook his head enthusiastically, his body language all sorts of uncomfortable and awkward as he flailed his arms out.

“N—no, that’s really not what I meant at all, Grif!” He squeaked out, “Your face is more than fine, believe me.”

Grif raised an eyebrow, and even with the helmet on he imagined that Simmons’ face was turning the bright shade of flustered red it usually became when the soldier thought he had revealed something particularly embarrassing.

“I—I mean… _shit_!” Simmons continued to stammer, “That’s not what I meant!”

“O—kay.” Grif let the word trail in the air as Simmons’ frantic panic at this point and his odd choice of words was just making him incredibly confused.

“Your face!” The other man was continuing to dig himself in further, “Your…face. That’s what I meant.”

The orange-armored soldier nodded again, “Yes, Simmons, we’ve been over this already.” His tone was patronizingly slow, as if he was talking to a child, “I have a face, and it’s one that apparently you think is fine to openly gawk at.”

A groan came from the other man, “Please kill me.”

He grinned, “Why, Simmons, if I did that how would I be able to mock you for all of these entertaining conversations we have?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“You’re a kiss-ass.” Grif shrugged nonchalantly at the insult, “So, are we going to just state what we both already know, or are you going to explain what you think is so weird about my face?”

“It’s not weird.” He mumbled so lowly that Grif to lean in slightly just to hear him, which in turn caused Simmons to fidget slightly as he added weakly, “Not in a bad way or anything like that! It’s just different.”

“How?” Grif was past the point of teasing his teammate now given how long this whole thing had been playing out and was just genuinely curious as to what he meant.

The visor of the helmet turned to look at him point-blank for the first time since their conversation had begun, “This is the first time I’ve seen it since the operation.”

_Oh._

Grif blinked, momentarily surprised. Neither of them really spoke about the operation with each other. Not in any real serious way. It was something they’d seemed to silently agree would be better left to joking and bickering insults if it was going to be a forced constant in their lives.

Now that Grif really thought about it, he supposed they really hadn’t had a chance to see one another without armor afterwards. Or, maybe they’d been purposely trying not to do so just to avoid awkward moments like this. He hadn’t really thought much about it until just now.

No wonder Simmons had reacted the way he did. It must have come as a huge shock to see the parts on Grif that had once, in not too long a past, belonged to him.

_Fuck_.

It was still taking adjusting time for Grif, even with some of the more visible scars now starting to fade and the pale, freckled skin starting to get a slightly tanner hue to match his own darker skin. He still thought he looked like a science experiment gone horribly wrong.

It didn’t help to remember that the pale patches of skin, along with quite a few of his organs and other appendages now, had until only recently belonged to the embarrassed maroon-armored soldier sitting next to him.

Grif wondered, not for the first time though he’d never admit it, about the raw deal that Simmons had gotten out of the exchange.

“Hey, Simmons?”

Simmons’ shoulders slumped lower, as if he was bracing himself for even more jokes from his teammate at his expense.

“What?” He finally let out, followed with a defeated sigh.

“Let me see your face then too.” Grif’s request sounded oddly serious for him.

_“What?!?”_ the maroon helmet turned sharply in his direction, the disbelief in Simmons’ voice practically palpable.

_“This had to be some kind of prank, right? Grif was an asshole and he’d gotten a ton of amusement out of this exchange earlier, so he was probably just going for Round Two now.”_

Grif could practically see that train of thought making its way through Simmons’ overly-sensitive, nerdy brain.

He raised both hands up in a placating gesture, “Relax, Simmons.” He informed him, “For once, I’m being serious here.”

The orange-armored soldier chose to ignore the snort of disbelief this comment caused (“now _who’s being a dick, Dick?_ ”) and continued, figuring he didn’t have anything better to do anyways.

“You saw my face for the first time since the operation and had an _oh-so-subtle_ reaction to it.” He ignored the _please-just-kill-me-now_ groan this evoked from his teammate, “But I haven’t seen your face at all yet. Fair is fair, Simmons.”

“But!” The redhead was trying to grasp at any idea that would keep him from having to go through with the request, “You hadn’t even realized that until I told you!”

Grif raised a black eyebrow, “I know, but now I’ve remembered that I haven’t seen your face either.”

Simmons said nothing, his posture suddenly going rigid. He stared straight ahead at the bleak future wasteland around them, not giving Grif an ounce of notice.

Now, Grif was suddenly a little unsure of his footing here. What if there _was_ more to why his friend wasn’t keen on showing his face now beyond just Simmons being, well, _Simmons_ and oddly self-conscious for no apparent reason as was his usual want?

To be honest, he hadn’t really thought of that. What if Simmons looked like The Terminator or something?

Grif, arguably, thought that would be pretty fucking awesome himself. But, someone like Simmons? Even with as much love as the nerd had for sci-fi, probably not so much.

“C’mon, Simmons, it’s not like it can be _that_ bad.” He goaded a little more gently this time, “You saw how I turned out and didn’t think it was hideous, right?”

The visor turned slightly in his direction, and his maroon teammate let out another tired sigh. With slow, hesitant body language that clearly showcased his reluctance in the matter, he unclasped his helmet and started to pull the thing off his head.

Well, to Grif’s slight disappointment, Simmons didn’t really look a whole lot like The Terminator beyond the fact that his right eye seemed to glow faintly red.

The right side of Simmons’ face down to the armor at his neck and some of the left portion of his forehead was tinged somewhat with a metallic sheen. Grif knew there was some sort of nearly translucent synthetic skin covering the metal plating on those portions of his face now. The scarring connecting the organic remnants and the synthetic was almost completely gone now.

It figured that Sarge would be a little more adept at repairing his second-in-command when compared to his resident space-waster. One could tell that Simmons was a cyborg now just by looking at him, but it wasn’t the hideous monstrosity that Grif had braced himself to see given Simmons’ earlier reluctance to show his face.

The difference between the organic and robotic in Simmons’ facial features was disconcerting, yes, but far from being visually unpleasing. In a weird way, Grif found it hard to look away. He kept on staring probably way longer than he should have.

Simmons fidgeted uncomfortably under his regard, “It…it doesn’t look too bad on the surface, huh?”

His orange-armored teammate blinked, getting his eyes to focus on Simmons’ own as the one normal-looking green eye and the glowing red eye were fixing him with a level gaze.

“It’s a different story below the surface.”

Simmons’ meaning was not lost on Grif.

“How much?” As he asked the question, he found his voice suddenly dry for reasons that had nothing to do with the desert they were in.

How much of Simmons had they taken out and replaced with metal parts and circuitry in order to save Grif’s life? He didn’t want to really know, and yet he _knew_ he had to all at the same time.

“Over sixty percent.” Simmons gave him a wry smile, “Technically speaking, I probably wouldn’t even qualify as a human anymore to some.”

“Fuck.” He’d heard a little bit about this from Sarge and Donut, but seeing Simmons like this and hearing him say those words with that weird look on his face, that _smile_ , made things seem _real_ now, “Why did you even agree to it?”

They barely counted as friends in the first place. Truthfully, Grif had been surprised when he’d woken up and found that Sarge had even bothered to exert any effort to save his life. That to do so Simmons had given up parts of his body and, from the sound of it, what some would consider his humanity.

Grif would have honestly been less surprised if they’d had just left him to die, only for Red Team’s resident slacker to have somehow miraculously recovered later just to spite them.

Simmons fidgeted slightly and looked down at the ground again before speaking quietly, “The operation to make me a cyborg was going to be done anyways, regardless of what happened to you.”

True, Sarge had wanted a cyborg soldier to replace Lopez and Simmons, being his most competent and trustworthy kiss-ass subordinate, had been picked for the _“honor.”_

“So, when you got run over by the tank, there was no reason to waste the parts I wouldn’t be using anymore.” Simmons glanced over at Grif and smiled, “That was the line of reasoning Sarge came up with, at any rate. I just volunteered to go into the operation without a fuss if he actually carried it out and saved your life.”

“Yeah, but,” the Hawaiian paused, having to push the words out over his sudden hesitancy, “Why even do that? I mean, it’s not like I’m not grateful or anything…”

_“Still, I didn’t think either of you really liked me.”_

The words seemed too childish and too low self-esteem filled that they were probably more likely something Simmons would say instead, to which Grif would then mock him incessantly for. So, he kept his mouth shut on that line of thought.

The maroon soldier looked down at the ground. The cheek that was still very much flesh and blood on the left side of his face turned a shade of red that would have probably made their commanding officer very proud to see.

“I know we don’t get along all the time, and we argue a lot.”

Grif snorted slightly. _That_ was a pretty big understatement if he ever heard one.

“But, I actually _like_ talking to you, Grif.” Simmons sighed and seemed to be rushing through the rest of his thoughts in an embarrassed frenzy, “If—if you were gone, then I’d never do stuff like this at all.”

He turned to look at Grif again, his expression both embarrassed and serious all at once, “Be—because of that, I couldn’t let it happen. I just didn’t want you to die.”

Grif couldn’t find any way to retort, so the two just sat there regarding each other silently.

The orange-armored soldier could feel his own face getting hot. He wondered if the red on his face, on the right side in particular, was as prominent as it was on Simmons’ left side.

This was a much, much deeper level of topic than either one of them were used to, so neither of them seemed quite sure how to approach it. The seconds seemed to drag on into minutes.

Then, just as suddenly, the air pressure around them seemed to change and _everything_ was on its head.

Grif wasn’t sure who initiated it first, or what had really caused the intense change in action, but it didn’t really matter in the long run.

All he was aware of was that they’d gone from sitting next to each other staring like a couple of deer in the headlights, to him suddenly practically _in_ Simmons’ lap. Their lips were touching: cool metal and dry, chapped heat all in one sensation.

Simmons’ gloved hands were knotted tightly, almost painfully, into Grif’s dark hair to keep his head in place as their kissing deepened until the simple initial lip contact became more of a thorough exploration into the insides of one another’s mouths. Grif had somehow managed to get his arms around the maroon soldier’s waist and was pulling his body closer as well. _Anything_ to increase the sudden frantic contact they had.

It was an uncomfortable position, given that they were both fully armored besides their helmets, but neither seemed to care or notice.

This was, after all, more of a human connection than either of them had in a long while.

Both of them seemed determined to hold onto it for as long as they could.

When they finally, _finally_ pulled apart for air it seemed like quite a bit of time had passed given the lengthening shadows on the ground around them.

Grif reluctantly unlocked his arms from around Simmons’ waist. The rough, desperate grip of Simmons’ fingers digging into Grif’s scalp disappeared as they disengaged from one another and moved back to their original positions with their backs against the rock wall.

The two stayed silent, a ton of thoughts racing through their heads.

Finally, Grif spoke up: “That was…um…”

“Y—yeah.” Simmons’ reply was just as eloquent.

With neither of them wanting to yet broach what exactly the intense encounter had truly meant, they quickly picked themselves up and went to check on the Warthog.

Which for some reason now didn’t want to work.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My own interpretation of what happened between Grif and Simmons during those three hours in the shade! :D Hope it was at least a bit entertaining. :)


	5. Awkward Camping Moments All Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Out camping during a search mission is probably not the best time to be found in an awkward position after having a dream about one of your teammates._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~Tuckington
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~Canon Divergent After Season 10
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

Grif couldn’t help but groan, annoyed at himself for having another stupid dream about what had happened _“in the shade”_ so long ago now.

They were happening frequently now, and at usually the worst possible times too. Really, how was a good-for-nothing slacker supposed to get any quality napping done when his mind kept drifting back to the one proverbial elephant in the room?

He and Simmons were even closer now, but _still_. Neither of them had brought that incident up yet. In fact, it was the one topic they seemed to avoid at all costs.

For his part, Grif didn’t actually bring it up because he had _liked_ it way more than he’d initially care to admit. In all honesty, he thought about it so much now probably because he just wanted it to happen again.

But, there was always the possibility that Simmons never mentioned it because he felt the exact opposite. That was something Grif never wanted to figure out for sure, so he kept his damn mouth shut.

Just like a punch to the balls from a black-armored Freelancer chick, the dreams seemed to keep happening just to spite him.

_Stupid fucking dream! Stupid fucking Simmons!_

The “pillow” he’d had his arms around wriggled slightly in response to the squeezing pressure he’d applied to it out of frustration. Grif suddenly froze, remembering that pillows technically didn’t wriggle. Unless someone was playing a cruel practical joke and put bats in his pillowcase, but no one was _that_ monstrous.

Then he remembered about the whole stupid search mission for Lopez, Donut, and Caboose they were on since the trio hadn’t come back in the Warthog yet. He recalled how Washington had suggested earlier that the rest of them should all get a few hours of sleep before they continued on with the search.

_Oh, shit, don’t tell me!_

His eyes cracked open slightly, only to be met with a pretty solid view of the back of maroon armor.

_Fucking kill me._

So, not _only_ had he had that dream again, but he’d also been in his goddamned sleep fucking _spooning_ Simmons while doing so!

His groggy brain was refusing to process this turn of events fully. So, when Simmons moved again to lean further into Grif’s side, the only conscious thought beyond sheer panic that Grif now had was that he was grateful that Washington and Sarge, in their usual paranoid states of mind, had both insisted that they all sleep fully-armored.

_Quick! Think of a fucking way out of this!_

Simmons moved again, and Grif winced at his own reaction as his arms encircled his teammate even more securely.

_Don’t even start thinking about somehow having babies with Simmons right now, brain!_

“Geeze, don’t you two ever give it a rest?”

A teal helmet suddenly loomed in his vision, and Grif could hear the amusement in Tucker’s voice as he continued: “I’d say get a room, but it doesn’t look like _not_ having one has ever stopped you before.”

Suddenly forgetting all about the situation he was in, Grif disengaged his arms from around Simmons and leapt up, “Says the guy who has his own rock?”

“ _Ow!_ What the fuck, Grif?!?”

Simmons woke up at the pushing and glared angrily at his comrade. The redhead hadn’t known what had actually happened, so all he surmised from his rude awakening was that Grif was being his rude asshole self and had just pushed him when he woke up for some reason.

Grif silently hoped it stayed that way, mentally cursing Tucker if he spoke too much on the subject.

“Hey, at least my rock is private.” Tucker seemed to take the bait, “Your sister didn’t mind it much.”

“What the fuck did you just say about my sister?”

Grif’s embarrassment over waking up as he did was suddenly forgotten while Simmons looked on at the current exchange in bleary-eyed confusion.

“Quit yer yapping, dirtbags!” Sarge entered the fray, having been awake before everyone else save for Washington. Thankfully though, he’d been off keeping an eye on the vehicles and cleaning his shotgun, only coming back to the campsite when the shouting had started, “How are we going to get the drop on the enemy if your shouting gives away our position?”

“First of all, there is no enemy. The morons just got themselves stuck out here somewhere.” Tucker replied as everyone’s attention started to focus once more on the reason they were here to begin with, “Secondly, how would _your_ shouting _at us_ to stop shouting not give away our position either?”

“Yells of respected authority carry differently than petty bickering. Everyone knows that!” Sarge harrumphed matter-of-factly.

“Everyone knows you’re full of it.” Grif muttered under his breath.

Sarge glared at him, quickly aiming his shotgun at his subordinate, “What was that, Grif?”

“Everyone knows you’re full of it, _sir_.”

The shotgun lowered and the old man nodded his head appreciatively, “Damn straight.” He said, “Now hurry up and get ready. You’re riding with Simmons again.”

“Bet you love that.” Tucker mumbled jokingly as Grif walked past him.

“Just as much as you love riding behind Washington.” The orange-armored soldier responded.

Tucker didn’t respond, but if his helmet hadn’t been on Grif would have probably seen an awkward blush on his face.

Truthfully, while sharing vehicles was a pain, particularly for Simmons and Tucker since they had to piggy-back with their designated partners, at least no one had to deal with Sarge and his shotgun as backseat drivers since he claimed the remaining Mongoose as his own due to seniority.

Grif in particular felt he’d dodged a bullet there. Quite literally, in fact, since Sarge’s comments on driving usually _were_ punctuated by bullets.

Washington was already sitting on the Mongoose when everyone beyond Sarge groggily moved into place.

He raised an eyebrow questioningly at Tucker when he came over, asking, “Do I even _want_ to know what all that shouting was about?”

Tucker answered him with a question of his own, glancing at the Red Team members as they took their places once again, “Let me put it this way, Wash, did you _really_ want to know what I wear to bed at night?”

Well, that answered that question pretty succinctly. Washington honestly could have done without knowing that not only did Tucker sleep in the nude, but that he also liked to get up to make late-night snacks as well. Truthfully, the former Freelancer still had a hard time sometimes eating sandwiches because of the mental image they brought to mind, as well as the odd feeling he had that caused his cheeks to heat up and his heart to race a bit more than he’d like to admit picturing said image.

“I see your point.”

“I still don’t get what happened earlier.” Simmons muttered to Grif as he waited for the other man to get onto their designated Mongoose before hopping on himself.

“Nothing.” Grif quickly covered up, looking directly in front of him and not at Simmons, “I didn’t realize you were that close to me when I woke up. Sorry for pushing you. I guess.”

“You guess?” Simmons sighed and got behind Grif, awkwardly fidgeting at the proximity and thankful that he had put on his helmet to keep his reddening face from showing.

Grif tried to ignore the memories that the heat at his back was bringing up just then, especially with everyone else around them currently.

Right now they needed to focus on finding the three dumbasses who had gotten themselves lost, and make sure they weren’t hurt. If they weren’t, then they’d possibly hurt the trio themselves for making all of them go out of their way to find them.

Grif figured all of these dreams and close instances were maybe a sign he’d have to be proactive and deal with _whatever_ it was that was going on between him and Simmons sooner rather than later.

Especially since that had probably been the best fucking sleep he’d had in a long time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was another part of that Canon Divergent from Season 10 fic I had been attempting to write! You can pretty much view this one and the two previous one shots as actually being loosely connected, as in the original version the “in the shade” part was a dream sequence that went into this part where everyone is looking for Lopez, Caboose, and Donut after they took the Warthog out for their driving lesson.
> 
> Suffice it to say, Wash’s sentiment that Caboose shouldn’t be allowed to drive just yet still stands for a while following this whole experience. XD


	6. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Puking on someone at a party is definitely one way to make a lasting impression._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~Tuckington  
> ~Robonut
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~College AU  
> ~Transgender Character
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

Dexter Grif wasn’t really sure _what_ he was doing at yet another college party, especially considering that he had managed to successfully keep his little sister away from this particular one.

Normally, he didn’t mind socializing for a bit. Provided that he got to eat and drink a ton, and was able to veg out and recharge for a good long while following. But, right now? He didn’t know how to describe his current mindset really, but the truth of the matter is that he was just not feeling this party anymore.

It probably had something to do with the fact that all of his friends from high school were now attending college and he wasn’t. You know, if he really wanted to dwell on the whys more closely. Which he _really_ didn’t like doing, so it kind of sucked that the thought was sticking in the back of his brain now just to fucking mock him.

These parties were full of people that he didn’t really know, all talking about courses and subjects he didn’t really give a shit about. None of them were really that interested in talking much to him once they found out that Grif was still stuck in a dead-end retail job and wasn’t just a fellow student they hadn’t seen around campus yet. That situation suited him just _fine_ , by the way.

He knew that Tucker and Donut had just wanted to be nice to him since they had all been together growing up and throughout high school. Grif knew that the reason behind the invites from both of his childhood friends this time around had to do with them wanting him to meet the new people in their lives.

Tucker had introduced Grif to a shy junior named David something-or-other after he’d just practically walked through the door. So, it _had_ to be a rather serious thing going on between them if Tucker was introducing his current significant other to his friends.

Donut had been blabbing on excitedly all the time about a foreign exchange student named Lopez who had muttered something awkwardly in Spanish just a few moments ago, before the two moved away to discuss something with the recently spotted Church and his older sister Carolina.

Grif didn’t really want to be a third wheel to Tucker and David’s night out following that, especially since David had given him a blank look when he betted that he could eat the entire snack table in under five minutes. Said look only intensified in disbelief to an almost hilarious level when Tucker scoffed at the declaration and said how much of a sucker’s bet that would be for anyone who knew the fat-ass for longer than five seconds.

The orange shirt wearing Grif did another cursory look around out of force of habit _just_ to make sure that his sneaky, definitely underage for this sort of thing, sister hadn’t come in to do something to embarrass the family. Or that would result in him having to pick her up from jail later.

Grif may act like he didn’t give a shit most of the time, but he was always concerned about his family. Which pretty much equated to just the two Grif siblings now, and had been that way for a really long time.

He couldn’t help but look for his little sister at places like this. Kai had always been a master at party detection, after all. It was her super-power, or so she had loudly declared the first time he had caught her at one at _thirteen_. Not seeing any sign of her, he then started making his way back to the door and the outside world.

That was until someone from the crowd on his left, in what was probably the living room when not filled to the point of breaking with a throng of loud, drunk college students so that any furniture was invisible, came barreling straight into him. Their red hair was an almost exact match for the red sprawling from their entire face all the way down to what was visible of their neck above their ridiculous-for-the-occasion knit sweater.

“Ow!”

Grif winced where the impact of the skinnier man had actually managed to bruise his shoulder. The guy had been running fast, and his bonier shoulder had hit at just the right spot of flesh to really hurt, so Grif couldn’t help himself: “Watch where the fuck you’re going!”

“S—sorry!” There was a flash of green when the high-pitched, squeaking person looked up from extremely nervous-looking eyes, complimenting a myriad assortment of freckles adorning a pale, reddened face.

Grif’s brain barely had the chance to register that the stranger who had plowed right into him was actually rather cute and somehow oddly familiar-looking to him, when suddenly the red in the other’s cheeks took on a decidedly sickly greenish hue.

The next thing he knew, the young man was running again with a hand over his mouth, spewing a million hurried apologies his way as he left Grif standing there covered in reeking vomit.

*****

“So, I guess the walk home wasn’t too pleasant-smelling, huh?” Tucker asked as he leaned against the counter, trying not to snicker too much at his friend’s misfortune but failing miserably to contain his mirth.

“Oh, fuck you.” Grif flipped him off, rearranging the used games nearby the register for the third time that day. Shit, he was still so agitated that he was actually doing work voluntarily, “You know how it played out.”

“Yeah,” Tucker nodded in acknowledgement, grinning, “My favorite part was that Kai made you stand outside because you smelled so bad. Then she turned the hose on you!”

“It’s the asshole’s fault for not letting me go!” The teenager in question griped, looking rather miffed at the exclusion still as she crossed her arms over her chest and fixed her brother with a pointed look.

He rolled his eyes, “Are either of you here to, you know, actually _buy_ something, or just to mock me?”

The two glanced at one another before almost simultaneously saying, “Why the fuck can’t we do both?”

Grif groaned and wished his lunch break wasn’t still two hours away.

“Anyways, Simmons is really sorry that happened.” Tucker moved on quickly, perhaps taking just a small amount of pity on his friend, “He even sought me and Donut out to ask if we could tell you that.”

The named didn’t ring any bells to Grif, so he frowned in response, “Simmons?”

“Uh, the dude who puked all over you at the party?” Tucker raised an eyebrow incredulously as to how Grif hadn’t somehow managed to catch on to that given the conversation they had been having, “He even offered to pay to get your clothes cleaned if it was needed.”

“Already taken care of!” Kai smirked triumphantly, giving herself two thumbs up before looking opportunistically hopeful, “But, if the guy still feels bad and wants to pay for a future booze fund—!”

“ _No_ , Kai!” Grif sighed exasperatedly.

“You suck!” She stuck her tongue out at him.

Tucker shook his head at the sibling antics on display, before looking rather thoughtful.

“Seriously, though! Simmons even approaching us is kind of a big deal.” He admitted, “He’s pretty shy. I’m talking bigtime. Even more than David.” His voice lowered slightly to a whisper after he noticed there were a few customers loitering in the store farther away from them, “And he always pukes when he gets nervous too. Everyone at school found out about it when there was this big test in Advanced Calculus.”

Well, Grif supposed that explained what had happened at the party. Though why the redhead would have been there at all given that condition was a bit of a mystery, not that he really cared too much either way.

“You can just tell him it’s fine. It’s over and done with.” Grif told Tucker, before another rather curious thought filled his mind and he vocalized it, “How do you guys know him, anyways?”

Tucker scoffed as though the answer to that should have also been pretty obvious, “The dude goes to our school, man. He’s even in a few of our classes.” He shrugged, “Not to mention, his dorm room is across the hall from Donut and Sarge’s.”

Right. Sarge was the crazy guy who was attending college in his later years. He’d become roommates with Donut in their dorm hall earlier that year and, surprisingly, the two had hit it off despite being opposites on the personality spectrum. Their level was called the “Red Level” due to the door coloring, while Tucker and a few other old high school friends were situated in the level below called the ‘Blue Level” because of the door colors there. There was supposed to be some sort of rivalry between the two dorm floors, though Sarge was the only one who ever took it seriously.

For some reason, Sarge didn’t seem to care much for Grif at all whenever the two had been forced to interact. It had something to do with his worries about how Grif’s seemingly lazy attitude could be a bad influence on Donut, who Sarge seemed to view in a protective and surrogate father sort of way, or any other Red’s attitude if he hung around them too long. Evidently, he considered “orange,” Grif’s favorite color, tantamount to blue as a result.

Tucker glanced at the contemplative look still on Grif’s face and raised a black eyebrow in response, “Why so interested if you’re not still mad he got sick all over you?”

“I just thought he sort of looked familiar for some reason.” Grif stated absent-mindedly, thinking back once again to the young man who had vomited on him.

It definitely felt like he had seen him before. Maybe out of the corner of his eye somewhere, so he couldn’t quite place how.

Tucker again looked at him as though he was the biggest moron he had ever met, “Dude, he lives in our dorm, remember?” He reminded him of what he had just said moments ago, “You’ve probably just seen him around in the halls or something when you visit.”

Well, that was true.

Kai, who hadn’t seemed to be that interested in the conversation a moment ago, suddenly looked up from the counter display she had been glancing at with a thoughtful frown on her face, “Is this that gray guy with the freckles?” She tapped her chin before continuing without even giving either man a chance to respond, “I’ve seen him in here a few times before when I’ve come to hang out.”

_That_ got both males’ attention, with Grif’s head snapping quickly in her direction, “What?”

“You mean you didn’t notice?” She huffed in mild annoyance, “He’s always browsing in here a ton whenever it’s your shift. Always seems to debate buying something, but leaves instead of doing it.”

“Makes sense.” Tucker remarked, nodding his head in understanding, “He _is_ a pretty big nerd.”

Grif frowned. No wonder the guy had looked so familiar then.

“Speaking of nerds!” Kai pulled an all-too familiar manila envelope from the large satchel she always carried and placed it pointedly on the counter in front of her older brother.

Grif didn’t even bother looking at it, instead glaring at her for having reminded him that the damn thing existed still in the first place, “No.”

“Oh, come _on_!” She pouted, “I know you don’t want to show off, but you’d be a shoe-in for this fucking scholarship, Dex!”

“No.” He repeated, a bit more firmly this time.

There was an odd lurching in his stomach, and for a moment he was almost reminded of the Simmons guy.

“She’s right, man.” Tucker chimed in, trying to be encouraging like he or any of their other friends usually tried to be when this subject was broached, “You could get financial aid and—“

“For the last _fucking time_ , just drop it!”

Grif’s raised voice caused the two _actual_ customers in the store to look their way sharply. The trio remained quiet for a few moments until their curiosity over the outburst seemed to be sated.

Kai sighed, “You need to stop being a stubborn asshole and just admit you’re scared, Dex.” She stated in a tone that sounded way too mature to be coming from his party-prone little sister, “You never know what will happen until you try.”

Grif said nothing, still refusing to even so much as look at the envelope and the application it contained. He knew that well enough without her saying so. It was why he’d never bothered applying for the damn thing in the first place.

*****

This party was even louder than the last one. Grif frowned, juggling his two plates laden with food expertly with both hands.

He was going to get a migraine for sure, and he’d yet to find either Donut or Tucker anywhere at all. He had seen Church, but it looked like he was getting pretty annoyed due to his tag-along “best friend” Caboose. So, Grif had decided it was best to not say hello at the moment since an angrier-than-usual Church wasn’t exactly a pleasure to be around.

Somehow, he’d managed to get up the stairs to the second level of the house and was thankful that it was at least a little quieter there. He almost felt a bit awful for whoever’s out-of-state parents were probably going to be coming home later on this week from vacation after all of this went down, though not too much since it wasn’t really any skin of his back.

He moved past the drunken couples making out in the hallway, determined _not_ to trip and lose any of his precious cargo as a result. One of the doors was still slightly ajar, and if it was empty he could at least eat his bounty in peace.

Grif kicked it open, dove in, and promptly shoved the door close behind him, sinking down to rest against it for added barricade measure. The tile floor beneath him indicated that he’d stumbled into one of the bathrooms.

He realized he wasn’t as alone as he had first thought when a retching sound followed by an all-too familiar and wholly unpleasant stench invaded his nostrils.

“We have _got_ to stop meeting like this.” He commented before he was even able to process how that probably sounded to the relative stranger nearby.

Simmons looked up from the toilet bowl for only a few seconds at the sound of his voice, his pale face still as red as his hair and a sickly sheen of sweat covering his brow before he went back to retching up whatever miniscule contents he still had left in his stomach from earlier.

Grif sighed, putting one of his food plates on the ground and reaching up lazily with his now free hand to turn on the bathroom vent switch, the noise thankfully helping to further drown out the loudness of the party as well as helping with the smell.

A weak-looking Simmons nodded in his direction gratefully.

“So, you’re Simmons, right?” He asked conversationally, as it seemed like Simmons’ sickness had started to die down somewhat a few minutes later. He already knew the answer, but figured it was a good starting point to a new dialogue regardless.

“U—um, yeah.” The young man’s head turned towards him, but he was still poised over the toilet just in case.

“My name’s Grif.” He greeted him as though this was a perfectly normal way to talk to someone, “I’m pretty sure we’ve run into each other at the dorm.”

“I—I think so?” Simmons frowned, turning to the toilet again, “A—and at the game store.” He added weakly.

“Right.” He nodded thoughtfully at the admission, “You never buy anything in there though.”

“Um…” Simmons’ eyes were once more downcast towards the porcelain throne before him, causing Grif to wince slightly.

“It’s that bad, huh? Just from interacting with strangers in a store?” He asked, wondering how the other guy ever managed to do anything then.

Simmons’ face became even redder in embarrassment and probably frustration, as he was clinging to the toilet bowl for dear life, “Not all the time.”

“Oh?” Grif raised an eyebrow, “So, what causes it then?”

Simmons didn’t say anything, instead looking pointedly at Grif and then down to the toilet once more. His face had taken on a tomato red hue, mixed sharply with threatening notes of green that were nowhere near as complimentary as the color of his eyes.

Grif tried breaking the ice further in the best way he knew how. Which sort of meant being a teasing jackass just for the hell of it.

“Are you allergic to your own nerdiness then?” He suggested, wondering what kind of reaction a comment as stupid as that would get from the socially anxious male.

The teasing question caused Simmons’ head to jerk up instantly, and he looked both equally bewildered and annoyed, “Th—that’s not even a thing, dumbass!” He shouted, his voice taking on an indignant high pitch that Grif’s oh-so-helpful brain decided to classify as _cute_.

“Hey, I was just asking.” He shrugged nonchalantly.

Simmons sighed, lapsing into silence for a few moments.

Right when Grif was beginning to think that maybe that would be it for the conversation, he heard Simmons mumble softly, “S—sorry about before.”

He shrugged again, “It’s cool, dude. You already got Tucker to apologize for you and my sister had a big laugh helping me clean up later.”

She probably had a little _too_ much fun, actually, but that was neither here nor there.

Simmons bowed his head, still looking ashamed, “S—still!”

“I figure that’s gotta suck, so we can consider it even.” Grif cut him off, his tone reassuring that he considered the matter over and done with.

There was another silence following that, and Grif took the opportunity to start digging into the plates he’d brought into the bathroom sanctuary with him. Hot dogs, nachos, hamburgers. Whoever had set this shindig up had definitely done right in the food department.

He looked up from practically inhaling one of his hamburgers to see Simmons staring at him incredulously from his spot across from him in the bathroom.

“Want something?” He offered, holding out one of the plates to the redhead, “I didn’t really bring anything to share.”

Simmons buried his head on the edge of the bowl, pointedly looking _away_ from Grif still devouring his food.

“I don’t know what’s worse.” He muttered, more to himself than to Grif, “That you’re going to eat _all_ of that yourself, or that you’re going to eat it _here_.”

He grinned in response, “Well, it’s not ideal, but I’m not one to let good food go to waste.”

Grif didn’t even have to see his expression to know that Simmons was making a face, “Gross.”

“Says the dude clinging to a toilet for dear life.” He scoffed.

“That’s _why_ your continued desire to eat _is_ gross, fat-ass!” Simmons shot back.

It was good to see a bit more color in Simmons’ face that wasn’t due to queasiness. Grif liked the way his eyes sparked up when he was talking without being anxious.

“See, I’d rather call it _persistence_.” He countered, smirking.

Simmons rolled his eyes, “I can’t believe _this_ is the best conversation I’ve ever had at one of these things.”

“You don’t exactly strike me as a party-goer type.” Grif remarked thoughtfully.

Simmons’ fingers subtly tightened around the toilet, his eyes going back down to the tiled floor, “I—I’m not.” He admitted quietly.

“So, why force yourself to come out to them?” Grif was genuinely curious about the young man sitting across from him now.

Simmons seemed to curl into himself even more then, something Grif wouldn’t have thought was even possible with his lanky frame if he hadn’t seen it for himself, “I…I’m trying to do more things that scare me.”

The answer was practically a whisper.

“Oh.”

Suddenly Grif’s mind went back to that damn application that Kai kept trying to pester him to fill out. The two individuals in the bathroom lapsed into an awkward silence until Lopez, hand entwined with Donut’s, opened the door. The action causing Grif to fall backwards partially into the hallway with a curse and a whole lot of spilled food.

The Spanish-speaking man looked around at the bathroom and the people inside before saying one incomprehensible thing.

“Yo no voy a ser el uno para limpiar esto.” _{“I am not going to be the one to clean this up.”}_

*****

It took several knocks on the red-painted door before they were answered, though Grif supposed that was probably the fault of the loud noise of the dorm party going on all around him.

Simmons, dressed already in flannel pajamas ( _total nerd!_ ), opened the door. He looked both annoyed and surprised by the disturbance all at once. His expression became more of a shocked one when he saw that it was Grif standing there as that familiar twinge of sickly green and bright red began crossing over his freckled features.

“W—what are you doing here?” He stammered, curiosity finally overcoming his surprise as he apparently combated any urge he might have to become sick.

Grif raised an eyebrow at the question, “I was invited to the party. Obviously.” He stated plainly before he gestured to the room behind Simmons, “So, are you gonna let me in or what?”

Simmons seemed to debate the question a moment mentally before opening the door a bit wider and allowing Grif inside. Grif entered, not really hiding the curious glances that he swept around the space as he took in the room for the first time.

Simmons’ side was surprisingly bare, save a few science fiction movie posters lining the walls, a bookshelf filled with both textbooks and novels for pleasure reading, DVDs, and a few video games.

In the middle of the room between two small desks, sitting on top of both were laptops, was a space set up for a small television set that had a gaming console hooked up to it.

The other side of the room had posters of various sports teams, including both the home team for this school as well as all the rival schools in the immediate area, and a bookshelf containing nothing but medical textbooks.

“Your roommate’s out?” Grif asked.

“Doc said he wanted to find somewhere less noisy to do his late-night yoga practice.” Simmons explained, shuffling awkwardly.

That made sense, he supposed. Well, beyond the late-night yoga practice part. Even with the door securely closed muffling it quite a bit, it was still pretty obvious there was a rather loud racket going on outside of the dorm room.

Grif nodded, regarding the redhead contemplatively, “So, you decided to skip on the party tonight too then?”

He was _not_ going to mention how he had come to this one specifically just to see Simmons again, and had then had to resort to practically beginning Tucker to tell him where his dorm room was.

Simmons winced slightly before saying shakily in way of explanation, “Test tomorrow.”

He _did_ look a little queasy around the edges, now that he mentioned that. Grif had nearly forgotten that Simmons apparently didn’t do too well with the pressure that went with taking tests.

Instead of dwelling on that though, Grif thrust out the plastic bag that he had been carrying this entire time, holding it out in front of the surprised student’s face, “I brought you that game you’ve been constantly eyeing in the store.”

Simmons blinked, green eyes widening in shock at the declaration as if he hadn’t heard it correctly, “B—but—!”

“Well, since your allergy to your own nerdiness kept you from buying the thing,” Grif cut him off before his protests became louder, “I figured I’d just go ahead and get it for you.” He grinned, “Now you don’t have to force yourself to hang out at the store all the time.”

Simmons looked rather downtrodden at that last comment, though he quickly seemed to bounce back and adamantly started to shake his head, “Grif, you can’t just—!“

“Oh, but you’re totally paying me back for it.” Grif informed him, motioning towards the gaming console he saw by the television behind Simmons, “I don’t own that system and this one looked fun, so I expect free turns whenever I come over.”

“W—what?” Simmons blinked again, his mouth hanging open in shock, “You—you mean, you’re going…to be coming _here_? You _w—want_ to?”

Grif ignored the questions since he figured the answer to that should be pretty obvious, instead nodding his head thoughtfully, “I expect snacks too, dude. _Lots_ and lots of snacks.”

It took Simmons a few moments to fully process what Grif was saying. His face went even redder, but he managed to grin, “I…I think I can manage that.” He told him, reaching out and taking the bag from Grif a second later, “Thanks, fat-ass.”

Grif returned the grin, “So, wanna get your ass kicked now or later, nerd?”

*****

It was on the fourteenth night of their new weekend “tradition” of Grif inviting himself over and Simmons more or less tolerating it when the redhead finally ended up asking Grif the big question he’d sort of been avoiding.

Simmons paused the game, looking unsure of how to approach the subject but far too curious at this point not to try, “You don’t go to school here.”

It wasn’t a question, which meant that he had figured it out probably a while ago.

Grif raised a black eyebrow, deciding to use sarcasm to hopefully deflect the subject a bit, “Wow. That took you longer to figure out than I would have thought.”

Simmons frowned, “B—but, I’ve seen you on campus and at the parties!”

“A lot of my friends from high school go here. Since it’s a local school and everything.” Grif informed him with a sigh, “I don’t because I don’t do well at school and I get decent pay at the store.”

He didn’t say it was because his grades hadn’t been the best since he’d had to focus on looking after Kai when their mom left. Or that he was terrified of applying himself, of trying and then finding out that he didn’t have what it took in the first place.

Better to play the _comfortable with status quo guy_ that he always did instead.

“Oh.” Simmons seemed curious still, as if he could definitely tell that there was more to the story than what Grif had actually told him, but he thankfully didn’t press the issue.

After that, they went back to playing the game. A new one this time. Grif always brought a new game whenever he came over to the dorm, whichever one he had noticed Simmons had seemed the most interested in whenever he had visited the store last. They continued as if the previous discussion hadn’t happened at all, until…

“It…it’s not local.”

Simmons’ voice was barely a whisper when he spoke just then, and Grif turned to look at him, the other man staring at something that seemed far away and definitely not located in the room with them at all.

“I—it’s not local. For me.”

Well, that explained why Simmons hadn’t gone to their high school. At first Grif had assumed that maybe he had gone to a private school or something, but he had thought maybe this college could have been simply further away from wherever his home was too.

“My father…” He swallowed nervously as if desperate for air, looking as though he was going to both vomit and be on the edge of tears all at once, “He wanted me as far away from him as possible.”

What he said next wasn’t even a whisper. If Grif hadn’t been sitting shoulder to shoulder with him, he wouldn’t have even heard Simmons at all.

“After…after I worked up the courage to finally tell him I wasn’t a girl.”

“Oh.”

Grif wasn’t really sure what else he could say to that, or if his sudden desire to pull Simmons close and hug him until he stopped trembling was the right one in this situation.

So, they both continued playing the game instead, pretending like the last several minutes hadn’t happened.

*****

The door to the game store opened as Grif was filling out the form sitting before him on the counter, and he didn’t bother looking up to see who had come in. If someone wanted his attention for something, they could bang on the counter surface loud enough for it.

“H—hey.” A familiar voice suddenly spoke up, causing Grif’s pen to freeze in place hovering over empty air above the paper, “Is the customer service really this shitty here?”

He looked up to see Simmons standing there, nervous-looking but smirking at his jabbing insult all the same.

Grif couldn’t help but smirk back, “You can always write a complaint to the manager about it.” He informed him sarcastically, “I’ll be sure to tell him to stick it up his—“

“Grif!” Simmons hissed in admonishment at the insult to an authority figure, looking around the space for him, horrified that the comment had been overheard.

Grif laughed at his flustered reaction, “Oh, relax, kiss-ass.” He told him, “Flowers is never here.”

Which was probably a good thing, considering that with Grif’s usual work ethic he probably would have been fired a long while ago if his supervisor was the type to care more about that sort of thing.

Simmons relaxed slightly then, though he frowned and Grif knew a Simmons-lecture was bound to follow, “Still, you really shouldn’t—!“

“Are you going to lecture me all day or are you going to window browse again?” Grif cut in, tilting his head as he regarded the other young man carefully, “You haven’t been around in a while, you know. I’ve been wondering what to get you.”

He wasn’t going to say that he’d actually missed the lanky nerd’s company a ton, but he supposed maybe that was conveyed in the worried, assessing look Grif gave him, at the near palpable sense of relief at seeing him again that he had no doubt probably bled through his words just then.

“I—I came here to buy something for myself!” Simmons huffed indignantly in response, before adding in a quieter and less sure voice, “And—and you haven’t come over in a while either.”

He looked hurt just then, and Grif wondered if it was possible that Simmons had missed his company just as much as he had definitely missed the redhead’s and he felt a bit guilty, though he still couldn’t help teasing him a little, “Oh? Did you miss me?”

“Y…yeah. Insanely enough, I did.” Simmons’ face was red again, but he managed to keep eye contact throughout the whole statement this time.

The effect caused an odd blip in Grif’s heartbeat, and he had to resist the urge to suddenly shout out that he had missed him too.

Grif sighed instead, letting out a genuine, “Sorry.”

Simmons looked as though he was going to question him further, and so the chubbier man launched into a further explanation of what he’d been doing recently, “I haven’t been trying to avoid you on purpose or anything like that, Simmons.” He reassured him, hoping his sincerity in that sentiment was definitely coming through, “I was working up the nerve to finally mail this thing out.”

He tapped the pen he was holding down on the piece of paper on the counter to show Simmons.

The other man tilted his head to the side to contemplate the upside-down from his angle form more closely, “What is it?”

“An application for a scholarship.” Grif looked oddly sheepish at the admission, “I’ve been putting off sending it in until now.” He shrugged, “Guess I was afraid or some shit.”

“Grif.” Instead of teasing him or anything of the sort, Simmons actually looked _impressed_ when he searched the tan man’s face again, “What made you change your mind?”

“You did, actually.” Grif was surprised at how quickly his response came, and he smiled warmly before adding, “Meeting you.”

“R—really?” Simmons looked as though he was in both total disbelief at the confession and as though he was liable to faint as a result of it within the next few seconds, “Meeting a guy who puked on you and hadn’t even been able to say hi to his crush beforehand changed your mind about something _that_ big?”

Grif couldn’t help but grin, “What can I say?” He asked, giving a firm nod of his head in Simmons’ direction as he regarded him fondly, “You make one hell of a first impression, Simmons.”

He couldn’t be exactly sure, but even though it looked for a moment as though Simmons might get sick there in that very store, he swore he heard him mutter a fond _“idiot”_ from underneath the hands covering his mouth.

Grif’s smile became even wider, “Wanna hang out here and mail this with me when my shift is over?” he asked.

The happy nod and teary-eyed smile he got in response was enthusiastic beyond belief, “Definitely!”

The two shared their first kiss together on the way back from the post office later that day, and they had several more by the time Grif received the notice that he’d won the scholarship.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was for a prompt given to me by my sister. I took the initial idea and it sort of developed a life of its own as I started putting it to paper! :) I experimented a bit with a different type of writing style and narrative flow than I usually write with, so I apologize if parts seemed a little odd given that. Still, I hope that the story ended up being an enjoyable one to read for everyone! :D


	7. Mister Squirrel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Certain revelations can lead to even more surprising ones when you least expect them to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

“So, let me get this straight.”

Dexter Grif leaned over the wheel of the Warthog to glance at the man sitting next to him, stiff as a board and nervous as all get-out over his recent admission.

“The reason you drive so damn slowly all the time and don’t really want to get behind the wheel anymore…” He paused for dramatic effect here, “Is because of _squirrels_?”

“Yes!” Simmons squeaked indignantly, already feeling horribly out of sorts and embarrassed by the confession he had just made, but feeling the need to defend himself from further teasing all the same, “They dart out in front of your car like they’re mocking you!”

The maroon-armored soldier shuddered at what felt like hundreds of flashes of memories assaulting his senses, “Then your dad gets mad at _you_ for running into a road sign because you were swerving to avoid them!”

Grif let out a tired, defeated sigh, “I am fairly certain there are no alien squirrels here on Chorus, Simmons.” He said, not wanting to ponder any more than necessary such an odd situation in which he had to be the one to use logic, “You’re going to get mocking debris here. At most.”

The redhead scoffed disbelievingly, “That’s just what they want you to think!”

For a long while there was silence, and Simmons panicked as he started to think that maybe he had revealed something to his comrade that he probably shouldn’t have.

At length, Grif spoke up again, “You know, in Hawaii we didn’t have any squirrels. But, there were these Small Asian Mongoose animals that all the tourists thought were our version of them.”

Simmons said nothing, wondering where the conversation was going. Grif always had a slightly more contemplative and nostalgic look on his features when he talked about Hawaii, and a part of Simmons always enjoyed seeing that side of the other man.

“Even though they were an invasive species, Kai had one that she’d always feed when she was little.” The orange-armored soldier smiled warmly at the memory, “She said it was her pet since we couldn’t afford a cat or dog.”

“R—really?” Simmons blinked, caught off-guard by the admission and curious to see just how long this vein of conversation would last, “What did she name it?”

“Mister Squirrel.”

At Simmons’ blank look, Grif huffed and rolled his brown eyes as he started up the vehicle once more.

“Whatever, dude. Just be glad that your deep secret shame is slightly more adorable than it was annoying and leave it at that.”

Simmons’ face was too busy turning red. The maroon-armored soldier was spluttering too much as his brain tried processing what the man sitting next to him had just said to notice that Grif’s face was also rather red now as he tried keeping his focus entirely on the ( _thankfully!_ ) squirrel-free road ahead of them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This short little humorous story was completely inspired by all of those crazy squirrels out there who like making my commute to work just a bit more difficult than it has to be. XD Stay safe on one side of the road, guys. :)


	8. Remnants: a Fantasy AU Prequel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Decisions end up bringing about some life-changing events for two people who meet by accident._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~Fantasy AU. Probably a Prequel One Shot for a longer story (see notes below!).  
> ~Hargrove is Simmons’ dad. Carolina and Church are his cousins.
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

The crowded gate area of Valhalla always made Richard “Dick” Simmons feel terribly uneasy.  He closed his eyes, willing the queasy feeling forming in the pit of his stomach back down once more.

Granted, there weren’t a lot of places within the technologically blessed capital of the Unsc Empire that _didn’t_ make him feel that way.

The entire city was a hub of activity for all of the empire.  On rare occasions they even did business with certain areas of the Outer Regions in Valhalla.  There was always something going on, there was always a crowd here with so many faces that they all became an imposing blur that nearly suffocated him.

Simmons had always been socially anxious and awkward even as a young child, a result of having grown up in a rather isolated household with an intimidating and distant father.  It wasn’t until years later that he discovered the true reason for his unusual upbringing.

His subsequent banishment from said household when the redhead had turned sixteen years old, along with becoming a ward of the Magic Division of Valhalla’s government, had only increased that awkwardness of his tenfold.

Now whenever Simmons was given permission to leave the grounds, or in the rare times when it all just became _too much_ and he ran away, he found that he was even more self-conscious and awkward in his own skin.

It was as if he felt people _knew_ just by looking at him.  That they would recoil the very second his shoulder came into contact with their own, as though one could contract Elven blood that way.

He knew it was a silly thing to think.  Judged by outside appearance alone, Simmons didn’t look any different from any regular human.  He was a lanky, pale, red-haired twenty-two-year-old.  One who burned too easily in the sun and was always adorned with an embarrassing amount of freckles.  No matter how much he despised the shape of his ears, the small scars on their tips were only noticeable if one was looking directly at them.

Besides, the enchantments that prevented his or any other registered Magic User from leaving through Valhalla’s protective wards were not visible to the naked eye: a combination of Fragment dust and one of the more useful “freeform” spells that the Unsc had adopted and developed for their own use following the Genocide injected directly into the bloodstream every month.

The wards did their job of imprisoning people extremely well.  There were rarely any escape attempts thanks to them since doing so stopped your heart.  He had been brought to see the aftermath of such a failed escape attempt firsthand by the ever helpful guards who loved tormenting their wards.

Honestly?  So long as he didn’t activate his power out in the open, which he knew well enough _not_ to do if at all possible as he had learned that lesson the hard way a long time ago, he knew theoretically he could slip into a crowd undetected and no one would be the wiser.

But _knowing_ that and _feeling_ that way were two very different things.

So, Simmons would often avoid going to the especially crowded areas of Valhalla whenever possible.  Instead, he preferred to remain on the grounds of his home in the Magic Division or at quieter spots like the public library.

Sometimes he would sit on the public grounds near where the airship dock and naval shipyard was located while imagining what it would be like to travel, but not getting too close to the hustle and bustle of passengers, crew, and cargo being loaded or unloaded.

It was rare for him to venture to spots like the Gateways.  Even more-so when he wasn’t given some sort of task to perform around the area.  Yet here he was, not only of his own volition, but also having snuck out of his room.

He _did_ somewhat regret his brash decision now that he was standing in the market grounds surrounding the circular portals that were often sealed to keep the Outer Regions at bay.  They were places that were, well, _outside_ of Valhalla and the boundaries of the Unsc Empire.  For lack of a better description.

The Unsc Empire had sealed off the fast travel links from their end to stem the possible influx of monsters from the Plague now ravaging the rest of the world, justifying it even more due to the increased hostilities with the people who remained there.

They only opened them on rare, heavily regulated instances.  It was easier to prevent all-out invasion and war if the only regular travel between the two areas was through either air as the Unsc had a monopoly on airships, or sea since the Unsc navy was nothing so sneeze at either.

Given the rarity of such an occurrence, it was no wonder that the grounds were even more crowded than usual.  No sooner had he arrived than Simmons had been swallowed by a sea of people.  He felt as though it were entirely possible that he could actually _drown_ in their midst.  Sweat was beginning to trickle down his body, and he pulled his maroon cloak closer around his body, already feeling dizzy as if he couldn’t breathe.

He supposed he couldn’t blame others for being curious since he had chosen to come here himself to view this particular Gateway opening.  After all, it was an even rarer occasion than most for a retinue of Orcs from the Outer Regions to enter Valhalla.

The Outer Regions housed many different peoples compared to the strict human-only rules of the Unsc.  Yes, there were humans in the areas outside, both native to the lands and those who felt the Unsc Empire was too strict.

There were also the Dwarves who made their homes underground.  Then there were the Seas who lived underwater or often close by it, as well as the Beast Folk.  He had learned about them in school and at the library, though his chances for encounters with them were decidedly few.

Of course, there were also the Orcs, the group that the Unsc Empire had the most difficulty interacting with.  While the other areas of the Outer Regions had a collaborative government, the Orcs tended to only be minimally involved in it.

As a result, there were always a level of friction between the empire and their particular area of the Outer Regions.  It did not help matters any that said area was close to where the Elves once lived, and therefore suspicions arose as to how in league with their neighbors the Orcs could have been.  Even centuries after the death of the last full-blooded Elf, the suspicion remained.

In a way, given his own situation with Elven blood, that had always made Simmons rather curious about the volatile group, even to the point of defying direct orders to stay on the grounds so he could view the admittance of the first ever delegation of Orcs into Valhalla.

Now, though, it was really only the inertia of the crowd around him that kept him there as the redhead was unable to turn tail and flee back to the Magic Division even as all of his instincts screamed at him to do so.

He could only see a bright pulse of light out of the corners of his eyes, could only hear the loud hum as the Gateway flared to life.  The mysterious figures who emerged from it were shrouded from view by several other eager and rather rude onlookers who practically knocked him to the ground clamoring for a better view.

He was sighing and picking himself up, not bothering to try to glance at the humanoid shapes currently making their way past the crowd of curious citizens, when a hand clamped painfully tight onto his shoulder.  Simmons winced, though his expression took on an even more drained look when he saw the steel insignia of a Division guard.

“Simmons.” The helmeted head held a familiar, cruel voice, “Why is it not a surprise to find you here?”

Zachary Miller was a grade-A asshole, one of those guards who loved tormenting any of his charges that he viewed as being “weak”.  Unsurprisingly, since he had been transferred to the Magic Division from whatever other hole in the Unsc he had been working at previously, Simmons had become one of his favorite targets.

“Um…” Simmons was drawing a blank as to how to respond, mouth suddenly dry as his heart thudded loudly in his ears.

“Wanted to see the freaks even though you didn’t get permission?” Miller’s voice was dripping with mock sympathy, “Not the best spot for that, huh?”

As they’d been talking, he had maneuvered Simmons out of the crowd while the redhead was desperately trying to think of how to beg the guard not to tell anyone or bring him back for discipline.

He was caught off-guard when Miller suddenly laughed, “I can help with that!”

Before Simmons could process what he meant, the other man shoved him in the shoulder.  Hard.

Simmons stumbled, taking several ungraceful steps with his arms flailing to keep himself from falling backwards when two hands grasped his shoulders from behind, steadying him.  He blinked, looking up from the awkward position into a tan, chubby face with orange lines marking it.

“You might want to watch where you’re falling, nerd.” The guy advised, voice both bored and amused all at once.

It took Simmons in his dumbfounded state about twenty more seconds to realize that Miller had shoved him into the back of the Orc procession, and another ten to realize that the man holding him upright was actually a part of it.

He was fairly certain that there was no way he wasn’t going to somehow get killed over this.

*****

“So, you really thought I’d kill you?  Over getting pushed?” The Orc’s voice had an incredulous tone as he glanced towards Simmons lazily from his spot on the grass overlooking the airship yard.

Simmons flinched, his face reddening once more in embarrassment, “I…I’d never met any Orcs before.” He stated lamely in way of explanation, though it sounded weak even to him.

His newfound “friend” raised an eyebrow, “I know the rumor is that we’re all big and tough with tempers to match,” he began, “But we don’t usually kill people for shit that isn’t a big deal.”

Simmons remained silent, too afraid to speak and show off his ignorance off even more.  He _hated_ not knowing things for certain, and that was becoming a rather constant thread in this conversation in particular.

The other young man glanced over at him rather disinterestedly, hands behind his head.  He was lying on the ground while Simmons still sat upright, his orange shirt barely covering his tan belly.

…Well, the Orc was _trying_ to appear nonchalant, but Simmons saw a momentary assessing look crossing over his dark eyes.

Simmons had to admit that Dexter Grif was not at all how he pictured an Orc.  Unlike the green-skinned, hulking monster he had heard and read about since he was a child, Grif looked more or less completely human save for the orange markings on his skin.  He was somewhat shorter than Simmons, a bit on the heavier side, and had tan skin where Simmons had pale.  His hair was black and messy, and his eyes were brown.

All of the Orcs had been humanlike in appearance, save for their skin markings that on closer inspection almost appeared to be a different type of skin than the rest of them.  Simmons could almost make out tiny indentations of what appeared to be scales in the orange on Grif’s skin, and it took all of his willpower not to reach out and touch them for clarification.

“Besides, you were pushed,” the Orc said at length, as if wanting to gauge his reaction, “So it wasn’t even your fault.”

Simmons blinked, having to break his thoughts away from staring at Grif’s features in order to process what he had just said.  The Orc had seen Miller shove him then.  No wonder he hadn’t been angrier at the interruption of the procession.

Then again, Grif using the entire event as an excuse to get away from the retinue by leaving to have a few words on “manners” with Simmons, had caught the redhead completely off-guard himself, especially since said “words” were ultimately a means of begging him for a prime napping spot.

Normally Simmons would question someone when it came to shirking duties, but he had been so flustered by the day’s turn of events that he had found himself bringing Grif to one of his favorite reflecting spots in all of Valhalla.

“I’m guessing you’re a Magic User, right?” Grif asked him a second later, “Because that guy was a Magic Division soldier and I know they don’t usually harass people on the street unless they can get away with it.”

Which they could if you were Magic User as “disciplining” for whatever reason was allowed within reason.

Simmons paused, unsure of how to respond to the question.  If he told Grif, how would he react?  Like the others who had distanced themselves the moment they knew they were dealing with someone of Elven blood?  He fought back the sudden urge to try to cover the scars on his ears once more.

“Does…does it matter if I am?” He finally managed to get out instead, voice rising to a challenge level.

Grif cracked one eye open to regard him rather lazily.  After a few seconds, he merely shrugged.  “Not really,” he told Simmons, “I was just speculating as to why that guy was being such an asshole to you.”

“Oh.” Simmons felt himself relaxing somewhat.

“Does it bother you to be hanging out with a monstrous, human-hating Orc?” Grif both joked and asked seriously all at once.

Simmons regarded the man lying next to him, his face turning red as he moved to look away.  He shook his head adamantly to the question, “N—no, it doesn’t bother me,” he paused, “You’re different than I imagined, is all.”

“That’s just because the Unsc Empire likes to keep their subjects ignorant whenever possible.  No one here tends to mind that too much.” Grif shot him an approving look, “But, you’re actively trying to learn things, so you’re _way_ better in my book.”

“Thanks.  I think?” Simmons raised an eyebrow, unsure of how to respond to the weirdly worded compliment.

“We used to wear armor and helmets to hide our faces and instill fear into Unsc soldiers when the conflict was still happening.” Grif said quietly, “Apparently, some assholes didn’t realize that and said those were our real faces.”

Which is why so many people had been shocked to see such relatively “normal”-looking people emerge from the Gateway.

“Do you still wear the armor now?” Simmons was curious.

Grif shook his head, “Only for ceremonial reasons really.  There was no point when fighting became focused on the monsters instead of humans.”

That made sense.  Nothing anyone did seemed to instill fear into the anger-addled minds of the Plague Beasts.

“Besides, we started participating more in the Coalition.  I don’t think the Elders wanted to scare the other regions.” Grif finished his explanation with a yawn.

_The other regions._   It was odd to think of how larger and less insular the rest of the world was compared to the small bit of it in Valhalla that he was forced to occupy.  There were humans living amongst Orcs and other peoples with an entirely different governing structure than here.

Even after having heard the stories from Sarge, Filss, and the Freelancers who had come from the Outer Regions, Simmons still had a hard time picturing it.  He couldn’t stop himself from asking, “What’s it like being a Magic User there?”

He wanted to know, to _hope_ , that maybe it was better than here at least.

“Not nearly as restrictive.” Grif’s response was so immediate that Simmons wondered if he could read his mind, “You have to register at the Guild when your powers first show up, but you don’t have to do anything else.”

“The Guild?”

Sarge had actually mentioned that before.  The older man had been a Guild member, one who had been brought in to help with training at the Magic Division as part of some kind of diplomatic gesture.  Sarge had quickly decided it wasn’t for him.  His leaving, though understandable, still hurt a bit as he’d become something of a father figure to Simmons in the absence of his real one.

“It’s an independent organization within the Coalition.” Grif explained patiently, “They do all sorts of odd jobs ranging from monster hunting to errand running.”

“I see.”

He supposed it would make sense for them to have the records of all Magic Users in their hands.  It certainly beat the Magic Division’s way of handling matters.

“Do they have a presence in the Orc region then?” Simmons asked.

A nod, “There are several non-Orc settlements bordering us, so that’s a given.  Besides, having the Guild around is smart since it is extra aid.”

They had more ties with the Unsc Empire as well, now that Simmons was recalling things better.  In fact, he was fairly certain that members of the Guild had been instrumental in bringing about these peace talks to begin with.

He glanced over at Grif with the reminder of just how they had met.  It looked as if Grif really _was_ trying to sleep, so he asked quietly: “Hey, Grif?”

“Hmm?” Grif didn’t bother opening his eyes this time, and Simmons was envious of how relaxed he could be.

“Why were you a part of the retinue?”

It didn’t exactly seem like Grif was too eager to be in Valhalla, nor did the others seem to protest him having dragged Simmons off to shirk his duties.

Grif frowned, “Ugh, don’t remind me,” he muttered, “They needed one extra person for the _full_ procession of twenty-one, so they hired me from the Guild.”

“You work for the Guild?” Simmons couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at that.

He nodded, “I told you they had a presence where I’m from.” Grif reminded Simmons, “My sister and I live in one of the Coalition friendly settlements.”

Grif had been raised with non-Orcs.  It was an interesting bit of information to have on his new friend.

“So, they just hired you to hold a place for their grand entrance?” Simmons surmised.

“Sad, isn’t it?” The Orc smirked, “If both sides focused on the matter at hand and not on appearances, things would get done a lot quicker.”

He could very much agree, but somehow Simmons was secretly glad in this one instance that that wasn’t the case.  After all, the procession had given him the chance to meet Grif.

…Not that he would ever admit that out loud and reveal how desperately lonely he was for friendly faces.  No, sir!

The two remained there well past Simmons’ curfew, but this was one of the few times when Simmons didn’t notice or mind at all.

They talked about a lot of different things: how life in Valhalla differed from life in the Outer Regions, where the best places to eat were (at Grif’s insistence), and about Grif’s family.  His little sister, for instance, was half-Beast Folk and was always giving him a rather fond type of headache.

Grif tried getting Simmons to talk about his own family, but it wasn’t exactly a topic he cared for so he talked about the Division instead.  It seemed as if the Orc noticed the change in topic, but didn’t press it.

When one of the other Orcs finally came to collect Grif for departure, Simmons felt as though no time had really passed even though dusk was settling over the city.

The redhead couldn’t help but feel a little sad when Grif’s line of _“Guess I’ll see you later, nerd.”_ carried over to him.  Oddly enough, Simmons found that he was unable to bring himself to respond.

*****

The heavy, metallic doors to the interior of the Magic Division opened to let him gain access.  Simmons was grateful that he didn’t have to push them open once again due to the heavy bag that he was carrying.

Filss had asked him to run a few errands for her in the market place and library.  Since he knew the diamond being was even more restricted in her movements than he was, both in a self-imposed way as well as in general restrictions, he had agreed to help her out.

Simmons was shocked when, upon looking up from the items that he had gotten, he saw a familiar pair of impassive, cold eyes staring at him.

The redhead swallowed back bile, “F—Fath—“

Malcolm Hargrove, the name that his father had changed his own to in the public sphere, narrowed his eyes at the admission in warning and Simmons stopped talking abruptly.  How long would it take him to remember that Hargrove had cut all ties with him when he came to live here?  Not that there had been many to begin with even beforehand.

Simmons had realized that his emergence as a Magic User was probably one of many reasons as to why Hargrove had changed his name.  His father had known of the potential magic in their family’s history and had wanted to symbolically distance himself from it.

If the older man was here, it would be due to the official business of the government and the committee he oversaw.  Not because of any long overdue parental feeling, no matter what Simmons might hope.

“Simmons.” He was shocked that the man addressed him at all, though it was only on the level he would speak to any other subordinate.

“Y—yes, sir?” His throat was dry, the bag heavy in his arms.

“A second delegation will be coming tomorrow.” His father proceeded without preamble, “You are to remain _here_.  Understood?”

He nodded his head mutely.

So, either Miller had told on him or one of his father’s spies had.  It made sense that his father wouldn’t want his “mistake” somehow ruining a potentially lucrative alliance.

He tried to keep from tearing up or shaking too much as Hargrove immediately went on to act as though he weren’t there.  Now he couldn’t even go to see the delegation on the off-chance that Grif might have been roped into coming along with them again.

“Filss.” Hargrove tilted his head to the side.

There was a glimmer of reflective light as Filss stepped into view, a woman composed entirely of clear, white diamond.

“Chairman?” Her tone was more muted and less enthusiastic than normal.

“I want the results of those test runs in under twelve hours.”

She nodded, “Of course, sir.”

Then his father was gone, not sparing either of them a second glance.  Simmons couldn’t stop trembling even after the doors closed once more.

Filss watched him and then glared at the doors, “I do not like that man.” She stated emphatically, distaste curling her lips slightly.

Simmons could only give her a watery smile in agreement.

She shot him a knowing, sympathetic look just then and he quickly held up the bag to cut off any commentary about how he was feeling as he mumbled: “Y—your things.”

His friend, really one of his only ones, smiled.  “Thank you.” She replied, taking the bag from him.

He nodded, “You’re welcome.”

Filss examined the contents of the bag carefully before observing Simmons with a thoughtful expression crossing over her smooth, shiny features.  It was obvious that he was still upset by the encounter with his father.

“I will be allowed to contact my sister soon,” she informed him, “It is our customary allowed message every month.”

Filss and her sister, Sheila, were special cases among the Magic Users here in Valhalla, ones where their abilities were physically always on display for the world to see.  They had been wards of the Magic Division for even longer than Simmons had, and even served as aides of sorts in the mysterious Freelancer program that was now more or less defunct.

That was until Sheila was sent to the Outer Regions as part of an aide program to help foster better relations.  Now they were only allowed one personal correspondence a month with one another, and could only speak professionally otherwise.

Both women were always nice to him, and he felt awful at the treatment they received by almost everyone else here due to their less than human appearances.  He could only hope that Sheila was happier outside of Valhalla at least, even if she wasn’t with her sibling anymore.

“If you’d like, I’m sure I could smuggle out a letter to Sarge.” Filss told him conspiratorially, “I know you have yet to respond to any of the messages he has sent to you.”

He couldn’t help but smile, both at the reminder that Sarge hadn’t forgotten about him and sent him colorful letters detailing his monster hunting exploits and at Filss’ attempt to help him feel better.

Yet he shook his head all the same, “Thanks, Filss, but I don’t want you getting in trouble for my sake.”

He said goodbye and quickly walked away before she could try convincing him further.

Besides, even if Simmons did write and they didn’t get caught sneaking a letter out, what could he even talk about?

*****

The needle gun shook slightly in Simmons’ hands as he glanced around the shady area of the Magic Division’s grounds once more to make sure no one else was around.

Fortunately, word of the second Orc delegation had swept everyone into a frenzy so the guards were either inside the building proper or out on patrols.  He was completely alone, which meant he had all the space he needed for target practice.

Technically speaking, Magic Users had to get permission for having any kind of weapon.  That permission was rarely, if ever, granted.

Simmons was no exception to that rule.  The gun had been a gift of his cousins upon leaving the center.  Since they wouldn’t be around to help keep an eye on him, Carolina had figured the needle gun would be a good way to not only help ensure that he had protection, but also a way to relieve his ever-present anxiety.  Naturally, Church just _had_ to joke about how everything came back to maiming things to his sister.

Still, it was something he desperately needed now.  Fuck, even thinking about his cousins and wondering what they were up to now that Freelancer was over with caused him to stress out all over again.  He had never been able to figure out what had taken place there, no matter how much he pried or begged.

Practicing a bit would no doubt do him some good.  The needle gun was a small, pistol-looking device that shot out needles at a very high speed.  It was easy to reload, and he had gotten to have a rather decent aim with it after sneaking away for target practice a few times.

He had set up a vase about fifteen meters away from where he was standing currently.  The redhead took careful aim while squeezing down on the trigger…

“Simmons?”

Just as an all-too familiar voice spoke up behind him.

Simmons spun around, not even realizing that he had followed through on pulling the trigger as a trio of extremely sharp needles shot out of the weapon and flew directly towards an equally shocked-looking Grif.

He expected there to be shouts or screams of pain, his stomach and chest lurching at the thought of Grif writhing in agony with needles protruding through his far too soft and humanlike skin.

Instead, he was shocked by how quickly Grif was able to extend his staff.  There was a momentary glow over the runes embedded in the weapon as he swung it in an arc as if to swat the projectiles out of the air.

Instead, Simmons was shocked when the needles suddenly exploded in midair a second after they were hit.  Only one tiny splinter got through still to nick Grif’s hand.

“Whoa!” Grif exclaimed, “Watch where the fuck you’re aiming, Simmons!”

“G—Grif?” Simmons was so stunned by the other man’s presence that he barely registered the retort, “Wh—what are you doing here?”

“Apparently having to work my ass off to avoid becoming a walking pin cushion,” he sighed, “and you know how much I hate working.  And walking.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to do more of both, you know.” Simmons couldn’t help himself.

“It wouldn’t hurt you to be mindful of where you’re aiming.” Grif repeated dryly, though there was amusement more than anything else dancing in his brown eyes.

“S—sorry.” Simmons could feel himself become red-faced at that, “I wasn’t…expecting you.”

Grif sighed, “My fault for sneaking up on you.  _Partially_.”

The Orc put his staff away, and Simmons blinked in memory of what had happened earlier.  The runes on the weapon were conduits to have energy safely travel through any item, which meant…

“You’re…you’re a Magic User?” The redhead asked him, incredulously.

Grif shrugged as if the admission wasn’t anything major, “Yeah,” he tilted his head to the side, “Didn’t I mention that?”

“No!” Simmons shook his head adamantly.

“Oh.  Guess I meant to and forgot.” Grif shrugged, “No biggie.”

Simmons felt as though his head were about to explode.  “It is a big deal, Grif!” He stated emphatically, “I didn’t know Orcs could be Magic Users.”

Grif stared at him blankly, “Of course we can.  All that means is that somewhere down the family line we had elven blood thrown into the mix.  The same as any other person.”

Simmons frowned.  What Grif said made logical sense, but there were records of the other cultures having Magic Users.  There were no such mentions of Orcs that he could recall whatsoever.  Grif seemed to catch on to what he was thinking, because understanding crossed over his features a minute later.

“Well, I suppose it isn’t common knowledge here in Valhalla since we aren’t too keen on sharing that kind of information with the Unsc,” he admitted, lowering his voice slightly, “They already think we were somehow connected to the Elves before the Genocide as it is.”

Simmons could only nod his head in understanding on that point.

“Besides, my power isn’t exactly something to go bragging about.” Grif stated, shrugging, “I can blow shit up when I touch it.  Awesome for parties, but makes it hard for people to want to shake your hand.”

That explained what had occurred with the needles then.  Each magic user had a unique ability that developed when they reached their teens.

For Carolina, it had been incredible speed.  For Church, he had developed two joint abilities that supposedly went hand-in-hand though he didn’t care to talk about them with others.  Filss had a body completely made of diamond, while Sarge was able to create weapons from his own life-force.

Grif could apparently cause things to explode through touch.  The runes on his staff helped to safely channel that power into whatever he hit it with.  As for Simmons?

He frowned when he saw the cut on Grif’s hand and reached his own palm, fingers stretched out.  Grif watched him curiously as the redhead held his fingertips just a few centimeters from the Orc’s hand and the wound.  A draining sort of warmth worked its way around Simmons.  As he concentrated on stretching the aura outwards the cut began to close up.

_A healing aura._   Even his ability was considered useless by his father since that was hardly something that could be weaponized.

“I heal things,” Simmons said quietly in way of explanation to Grif, “if they’re close enough.”

He still had trouble expanding his range past a few centimeters, but he was trying.

“Seems like a pretty useful skill to have.” Grif grinned gratefully.

“Hardly,” he rolled his eyes, “I still have no range and can’t even heal myself.”

“Yeah, but if I’d had that power instead?  I could have saved _a lot_ of energy and time trying to calm Kai down from scraped knees.”

Well, _that_ figured.  Simmons couldn’t help but smile and shake his head, “Lazy ass.”

“Kiss-ass.” Grif’s smile and response was just as automatic.

“So, you’re more defensive and I’m offensive,” Grif mused once a comfortable silence fell upon them, “Guess we complement each other that way, huh?”

Simmons blinked, taken aback by the comment and the sudden pounding of his heart at the oddly wistful expression Grif seemed to be shooting him, “I…I guess so.”

He paused and quickly decided he needed to say one thing at least, “I swear I won’t tell anyone that Orcs can use magic too, Grif.”

The other man’s smile only widened knowingly, “Thanks, nerd.  I had a feeling it would be okay to show you.”

They talked quite a bit more following that, mostly about what they had been recently up to.

Simmons was so relieved, so _happy_ to see his surprise friend again that he didn’t even question Grif’s earlier comment any, or ask why he had come back to begin with.

*****

“So, Simmons,” Grif took a pause here to choke down an impossibly huge portion of food, “What do you know about the Genocide?”

Simmons blinked, thinking it to be an odd topic of conversation, but he supposed it was of the same vein as their _“do you ever wonder why we’re here?”_ one from earlier.

They were still in the shaded area of the grounds where Grif had found him target practicing earlier.  He’d subsequently laughed at his attempts to hit the vase and Simmons had to resist the urge to turn the needle gun on him on purpose.  Simmons had snuck some food out when Grif had complained that “ _catching up always made him hungry._ ”

Most of it, beyond a piece of bread that Simmons had to pull away quickly lest Grif tried eating his hand along with it, went to the Orc.  How Grif wasn’t choking on the sheer amount of food he was inhaling was beyond him.  Simmons supposed it was a miracle the man actually was slowing down to talk now, a contemplative look crossing over his features as he waited for Simmons to respond to his inquiry.

Everyone knew the Genocide story though.

“The human-led Unsc Empire was in serious conflict with the Elves of the Outer Regions.  It was beginning to affect relations with other peoples,” he recalled from all of the history lessons drilled into him as a child, “At the height of the war, the Elves unleashed the Plague of Monsters onto the world and the empire wiped them out in retaliation for it.”

It was a really sad story.

“The only Elves to survive intermixed in the population before dying off, which is how current Magic Users are born.” Simmons resisted touching his ears again here, though his halted motion to do so wasn’t lost on Grif, “Since the Outer Regions were the most affected by the Plague, the Unsc Empire set up the magical barriers to make travel extremely regulated between the lands.”

“Perfect textbook response.” Grif stated, nodding his head in approval, “As expected from a nerd.”

Simmons huffed, “Well, why ask a question everyone already knows the answer to?”

Grif didn’t respond right away, fiddling with a blade of grass in-between his fingers.  At length, he finally spoke up, “You know, the Orcs tell an alternate version of those events along with what the history notes say.”

_That_ caught Simmons’ attention and he looked at him curiously, “Really?”

Grif grinned at having hooked Simmons through the other young man’s natural curiosity and inquisitive nature.

He nodded, “It’s said that the Elves _only_ unleashed the Plague when they realized their deaths were imminent.”

Simmons frowned, “But, that would mean the empire had wanted to kill them all along.”

The version of events taught to children were horrific enough given the scope of what had happened.  If what Grif was saying was true though?  He shuddered.  That made things even _worse_.

“Exactly.  Which wouldn’t help their reluctant peacemaker image in the slightest,” Grif stated quietly, “And it would call into question their vilifying of the Elves and Magic Users.”

Simmons’ hands went to the scars on his ears then.  Grif looked as if he wanted to comment, but he thankfully didn’t.  “Could you imagine what it would mean if that turned out to be true?” Grif asked instead.

Simmons could.  In a way.  It could change _everything_.  Maybe, just _maybe_ , that would mean some positive changes for Valhalla too.

It didn’t hurt to dream of it, at any rate.

He wanted to thank Grif for telling him, even if all it did was fill him with a false sense of hope.  It was better than nothing, but as the redhead looked towards the Orc he saw that Grif was already back to trying to fit two hand-sized pies into his mouth at once.

Simmons couldn’t help but make a face instead.

*****

Either the peace talks were going well or they were going horribly, because a third one had been scheduled a month or so after the second.

Personally, Simmons didn’t really care either way.  All it meant was that he had the possibility of running into Grif again.  Not that he really knew for certain in the chubby Orc would be coming, but, well, it gave him something to marginally look forward to at least and so he clung to it.

Simmons had even decided this time to say _“Fuck it!”_ to the rules and his father in particular for once in his life, sneaking out of the Magic Division and standing near the curious onlookers at the Gateway once more.

He knew Miller and his asshole friends had been assigned to guard the Magic Division grounds today, so he at least didn’t need to worry about getting caught by them.  He had been extra-careful in bundling up to avoid detection on his way there to boot.

After all, he couldn’t be sure that Grif would be able to ditch his retinue duties just to sneak onto the Magic Division’s grounds again just to say hi.  Honestly, Simmons was still rather shocked that the Orc had gotten the drive and energy to do so even _once_.

The redhead supposed it was only fair he did just as much work in keeping this odd friendship of sorts afloat as the lazy-ass did.

The Gateway hummed to life as figures emerged from its circular, mirror-like depths.  Simmons stiffened in anticipation, this time having set himself farther away from the gathering crowd so he wouldn’t get swallowed up in their depths.

He inched forward slightly as the Orcs came into view.  They were all standing there seriously, at attention and with weapons at the ready in a display of power.  All save for the final member of the group.

Grif’s despondent demeanor and slumped over posture was in surprisingly sharp contrast to his usual _“just can’t be bothered”_ demeanor.  Simmons’ stomach lurched at the sight of it.

Something was wrong, that much he could tell.

In fact, Grif began moving half-heartedly along with the others without raising his eyes to look around at his surroundings.  He didn’t even try to catch a glimpse of who might be there, waiting for him.  Somehow, that panicked Simmons in a way he wasn’t even sure he could remotely care to explain.

“Grif!”

Before he could even think about where he was or what he was doing, Simmons had raced forward with a cry and stopped just in front of his friend, hand outstretched as if he had been about to follow through on grabbing on to catch his attention.

There were low murmurs all around them, but Simmons ignored them as his panicked mind still focused on Grif alone.

The Orc blinked slowly down at the redhead’s hand, then looked up into his green eyes as if he was just waking up from some sort of weird trance.  “Simmons?” He asked, his voice hardly above a whisper.

“Took you long enough to figure it out, fat-ass.” Simmons joked in response, just desperate for any way to get a sense of _“normal”_ back between them.

Grif didn’t respond at first, but the grip on Simmons’ arm just as he was about to put his hand down spoke volumes.

*****

Grif told him it had been a slaughter.

After seeming to get his wits back around him, just as Simmons had started realizing what he had done in front of everyone and began panicking over it, Grif had dragged the redhead off without another word.  He had brought them to the park that Simmons had showed him on his first trip to Valhalla, and had promptly began talking about just what had made him so upset.

It had apparently been a monster hunt set up from the Guild that had gone terribly wrong.  Grif had been the only survivor.

The Orc shook his head, a haunted look remaining in his dark brown eyes as he gave Simmons a wry, self-deprecating smile, “When this assignment came up again I figured it was a good way to keep my mind off of things, you know?”

Simmons didn’t know.  Not really.  Though he could relate at least partially to using work to get your mind off of painful things.

The Orc laughed a bitter, biting laugh, “Only it really hasn’t done shit, which _majorly_ sucks.”

“Grif…” Simmons stopped and trailed off, unable to think of what to say before trying again, “I’m sorry.”

It was wholly inadequate, but he wasn’t sure of what else to say or do just then.

“I know.” Grif sighed.

Simmons looked away then, fairly certain he maybe just needed to leave Grif alone in his grief.  The redhead wasn’t sure if it was something the Orc wanted to remain private, or even of what to really do as he made to get up.  He wasn’t expecting the other man to look slightly panicked at the motion, nor to suddenly lean forward and wrap his arms tightly around Simmons as though he were a lifeline.

Simmons’ brain short-circuited at the contact, and he simply sat there dumbly within the embrace while positive that his heart would burst out of his chest at any second.

“I missed you.” Grif’s voice was quiet as he pulled away, and Simmons blinked while unsure of how to respond.

He smiled slightly, figuring this was a moment they’d both chalk up to emotions running high and gloss over later, “I...I missed you too, Grif.”

When he seemed confident that Simmons wasn’t about to leave, Grif relaxed a bit and sat down again.  The two lapsed into silence, watching the airships docking and undocking while occasionally stealing glances at one another.

At long length, Grif asked, “Have you ever heard about Linking Magic, Simmons?”

Linking Magic was an ancient form of magic that the Elves had wielded.  It was meant to connect two willing souls together, increasing both of their magic in the process.

According to the ancient texts, it was something of a double-edged sword though, as the two people were connected to one another very deeply at all times.  From what he knew, any attempts to duplicate the process with Magic Users had been unsuccessful, and that attempting to do so now was generally forbidden.

“Yeah, of course I have,” he told Grif, glancing at him curiously, “Why?”

Grif didn’t answer him and a few seconds later, the other man was snoozing on his shoulder.  Even though the Orc was heavy as all fuck and they didn’t have a ton of time, Simmons didn’t have the heart to wake him just yet.

*****

The fourth time they meet, Grif was actively looking for Simmons after stepping through the Gateway.  He waved upon seeing him, pointing Simmons out to a dark-skinned man who appeared to be one of the Beast Folk.  The stranger had black furred, feline-like ears and a tail that matched his hair color.

“Oh, so _this_ is the husband you’re always going on about on Guild assignments?” The man, Lavernius Tucker, joked while shooting Simmons a conspiratorial wink as he did so.

“Tucker, shut up.” Grif muttered, his face almost as red as Simmons’ became following that question.

The newcomer shrugged and grinned, “Hey, I just tell it like it is!”

Tucker was another Guild representative from one of the settlements that housed both Orcs and other peoples.  Apparently, the Coalition had felt the need to send some non-Orc representation to the talks now that they had started to heat up.  This particular Beast Folk was something of friends with both Grif and his little sister as well.

Simmons couldn’t help but smile slightly, glad that Grif seemed to be feeling better now too from the last time they had met.  Tucker seemed nice and friendly enough too.

“Kai’s going to be so _fucking jealous_ that I got to meet you first!” He whispered conspiratorially to Simmons as both Tucker and Grif were called over to the actual retinue for once, “Do you know that Grif actually _volunteers_ to come on these assignments now?”

“R—really?”

That was a shock, considering that all Grif did was ditch work as soon as possible to hang out with _him_ of all people.

Tucker nodded before sighing dramatically, “But, Kai _is_ going to an orgy this weekend that I am totally missing for this, so I guess we’re sort of even there.”

“Yeah, yeah…” It took a few seconds for what he said to fully process in Simmons’ brain, “Wait, _what_?!?”

*****

Simmons sat in his usual spot near the airship port, waiting for Grif to come back.

The Orc and Tucker had both been asked to actually attend this particular talk, but Grif had assured the redhead that he would meet up at their usual spot while ignoring Tucker’s whistle at the fact that they actually _had_ a spot.

Simmons had learned a bit more about Grif’s home life thanks to Tucker, which he was grateful for.  He was glad to see Grif finally doing work for once, though in a way he was sad too since it meant that their day together would be cut short this time.

He wondered how pathetic it would be if he asked the Orc to visit him again maybe on his own if the talks went well and sighed, deciding that he would just have to make the most of the current situation if he could.

Footsteps came behind him.  Heavy ones.  Simmons was about to let out a greeting of _“What took you, fat-ass?”_ to his friend when something familiar was tossed to the ground next to him.

His needle gun.

“Hey, Simmons,” Miller’s voice along with the chuckles of his fellow guards made Simmons’ blood run cold as he stared down at the weapon, “Guess what we just found on a mandatory room search?”

He swallowed, throat dry.  The weapon was lying right there, but they all knew that Simmons reaching for it would only make things that much worse for him.  It would only give them the exact excuse that they seemed to be looking for.

“That’s a severely punishable offense, you know,” Miller said conversationally, looming over Simmons threateningly, “As is sneaking out during the peace talks.”

Suddenly, he was grabbing Simmons by the arm and yanking him forcibly to his feet.

“Some people never learn, do they?” Miller jeered to his friends.

They snickered, and Simmons whimpered—trying to pull away.  The first blow hit him hard in the gut.  The next one hit his face.  A jab to the knee knocked him over, but he was pulled back upright only to be hit again.

Anytime a blow knocked him down, he was pushed upright for the whole process to repeat.  He tasted copper.  Something warm and wet was making it hard to keep his eyes open, though the flashes of pain weren’t helping either.

“Transgressions like that are the ultimate offense, Simmons.” Miller informed him, glancing from the gun to the airships in the distance, “Do you sit here because you dream of leaving?  Want to see what will happen when you do?”

Then the guards were dragging him to the edge of the park, to the faint shimmer that concealed the barrier that kept Unsc separate from the rest of the world.

Simmons started struggling, trying to dig his feet into the dirt to no avail.  Miller was going to push him through, was going to _kill_ him.  His heart would give out the second he stepped foot outside!

Would his asshole father even tell his mother or his cousins what had happened?  Would they mourn?  What about Filss and Sheila?  Would Sarge, if they were able to tell him?

…What about _Grif_?

Simmons wanted to cry, wanted to punch Miller’s lights out, but all he could do was weakly flail his arms…

“Simmons!”

Someone familiar was calling out his name, and suddenly Miller was dropping the redhead as if something had just burned him.

As if simply touching Simmons had burned him.

Simmons blinked through swollen eyes, not quite sure what had happened.  He was on the ground by the edge of the terrain, Miller writhing in agony next to him as another guard lunged forward…

_“Simmons!”_

Grif called his name again as everything went painfully, suddenly black.

*****

When Simmons woke up, it was to sheer panic and a blooming sense of pain racing throughout his entire body.  He screamed, jumping upright and wincing as he did so, remembering what had happened the last time he had been conscious.  Miller had been about to…!

“Simmons,” Grif was sitting next to him, putting reassuring hands on his shoulders, “It’s okay.  You’re all right now.”

“G—Grif?” The redhead blinked, feeling light-headed and still aching all over.

A healing aura and he couldn’t even use it on himself.  Oh, the irony.  Grif smiled apologetically, helping to ease Simmons back down onto the bedroll he had awoken on.

“Well, as all right as anyone can be after that kind of beating.” The Orc tried joking, though there was obvious concern and worry in his eyes.

It was enough to get Simmons to return a weak smile to him, and he then took a second to look around the space he had woken up in.  They were in a large tent of some kind, and clearly _not_ in Valhalla.  His mind became dizzy at that dawning realization alone.

“Wh—where…?” Simmons managed to get out weakly after a few seconds of still trying to process what was going on.

“A traveling caravan outside Unsc’s borders.” Grif told him in way of explanation.

For a moment, Simmons thought he was dreaming.  He panicked and put his hand to his bruised chest, just to make sure his heart was still beating.

“Something about what happened somehow disrupted your prison enchantments.” Grif assured him, “You were already partially outside the barrier and still breathing when I got there.”

Simmons frowned, narrowing his green eyes.  Not only did that not make any sense, it also didn’t explain how he got here.  _Wherever_ here was.

Grif seemed to sense this because he added a second later, “I brought you here, Simmons,” he informed him quietly, eyes hardening a bit, “There was no fucking way I was leaving you there after that.”

The Orc’s voice was daring him to try and argue.  Simmons almost would have simply for the _sake of it_ if nothing else, but he was having a hard time processing things at the moment.

He supposed it was only natural to feel disoriented and groggy given what he’d gone through.  He also suspected he had probably been given some pretty potent medicine for pain while he was out of it too, given how he felt.

“Thanks.” Simmons finally managed to get out, “F—for helping.”

Grif almost seemed nervous beforehand, letting out a shaky sigh of relief at Simmons’ comment.  He reached over and held his hand for a second.

“You still need to sleep, nerd.” Grif informed him gently, “Rest up.  We’ll talk later.”

Simmons couldn’t really argue, given how he was feeling.  As his mind drifted back into darkness, it finally hit him that he was _free_.  He had never felt more terrified or ecstatic all at once.

His last conscious thought was of squeezing Grif’s hand, of which he would of course deny later, just to make sure the Orc was still there with him.

*****

“You didn’t tell him.” Tucker’s voice was soft when he entered the tent moments later.

Grif didn’t look up from Simmons’ sleeping face at his entry, “Didn’t tell him what?”

“Gee, I don’t know!  About the whole mysterious _linking_ shit?” Tucker replied sarcastically, ears tilted to his head and looking at Grif like he was an idiot.

In the chaotic moments when they had found Simmons being attacked, _a lot_ of things that Grif wasn’t sure he wanted to fully dwell on had happened.

“That’s for another day.” He finally muttered.

“Really?  Because I kind of think I’d want to know about it now if I was in his shoes.” His friend said, obviously rolling his eyes by his tone.

The Beast Kin did have a point, even if Grif wasn’t ready to hear it.  He wasn’t sure that Simmons was ready either.  He could just picture the redhead panicking.  He didn’t need that at the moment.  If at all possible, Grif didn’t want him to see this as anything but a good thing.

Grif sighed, “He just got the shit beaten out of him and nearly _died_ , Tucker,” he reminded him, “Not to mention that I technically kidnapped him from Valhalla, which I’m pretty sure he’ll chew me out for when he feels better.” The Orc sighed, “Accidentally somehow linking can be a trauma we save for another day.”

Tucker sighed in return, “As long as you do tell him about it, I guess,” he finally relented before becoming uncharacteristically serious, “Believe me, the Guild is going to have questions.”

“I know.”

It wasn’t like Grif didn’t have them himself.  The linking or whatever it was had saved Simmons, he was fairly certain of that.  But, it was definitely something that had come as a shock for _both of them_ at the time.

Tucker exited the tent a moment later with a _“Totally married.”_ comment under his breath.  Grif wasn’t sure how long he stayed there exactly until Simmons stirred again.

“Hey, Grif?” The redhead asked sleepily, still under the influence of the pain medicine he had been given.

“Yeah?” Grif gripped his hand, hoping the reason Simmons had woken up wasn’t because  he was in any pain or anything.

“I think, well, I’ll probably panic afterwards but right now I feel calm so _fuck it_ , right?” Simmons was rambling groggily, “I think…I want to investigate some Elven ruins when I feel up to it.  See which story is true.”

The Orc was surprised and oddly touched in a way that Simmons had remembered his odd little conversation point from their second meeting.

“Sure.  I’ll even help you out, though it sounds boring as fuck.” Grif smiled, relieved that Simmons was just rambling in his sleep and seemed almost eager to be here.  As long as Simmons was okay, he would be too.

“Thanks.” Came the groggy but genuine response.  Just like that, the redhead was snoozing again.

Grif couldn’t help it when his smile widened slightly.  He knew there were definitely _a lot_ of things they would need to discuss in more detail following Simmons’ recovery, but for right now?

For right now, being close to Simmons like this was more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my first attempt at writing a Fantasy AU, and it was a rather fun experience! Actually, this was originally meant to be a one shot, but I have an idea as to how it could be made into a multi-chapter story so I view this as kind of a prequel now. If others seem interested in seeing more from this story-verse, I might just try to alternate between chapters of the next installment of this AU (which I’m calling _Remnants_ ) with chapters from _When We Were Soldiers_ , the next update of which should be coming soon!
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed! Thank you very much for reading it! :D


	9. Fighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sometimes actions speak louder than words._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~Fighter AU
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

Dexter Grif winced as Doctor Emily Grey finished bandaging up the last of the lacerations on his face.

“Finished!” She exclaimed happily, snapping her medical tools back into her kit, “Though that could have gone better.”

“You mean if he’d actually applied himself?” The scathing tone in Richard “Dick” Simmons’ voice was hard not to overlook.

Great.  The nerd was _fucking pissed_ at him now.

“No, if he hadn’t even done his usual half-hearted blocking attempts I would have had even more exciting work to do patching him up!” The dark-skinned woman smiled brightly before sighing and shaking her head slightly, “It’s always the same scrapes and bruises whenever Grif comes here after fights.”

“I’ve noticed.” There was a flash in Simmons’ eyes that promised Grif they would be having their usual shouting match later.

However, he’d worry about what was to come later when it happened.  Right now in this particular moment, Grif was busy pondering whether or not he should be relieved that Doc hadn’t been the one in the medical clinic today, or scared that it was the eccentric Doctor Grey instead.

Of course, then Grif remembered that last time when he’d had cuts on the inside of his mouth thanks to a well-placed punch from his friend Lavernius Tucker.  Back then, Doc had still insisted that drinking orange juice would be a good treatment option for him.  It had hurt like a _bitch_.

So, it was probably for the best that it was Doctor Grey all the same this time around.  No matter how bored she got with her usual patchwork.

*****

“You’re not even trying.”

Simmons didn’t even wait until they were more than two steps out of the clinic before he started in again.  They were heading back towards the Fighting Quarters, the place where both Red Team and Blue Team, two middle-ranked teams on the fighting circuit, were housed and trained.

Fortunately, his last bout had been within walking distance of the clinic and the quarters so they didn’t have to pay to get back using public transportation with their hard-won cash.

Grif sighed in response to what was obviously the beginning of an argument, “No, Simmons, I’m not.”

His training partner was frowning: “Why?  I’ve seen the specs on your opponents.  I _know_ your strengths.  You could be easily dominating these brackets if you applied yourself!”

The tan-skinned man rolled his eyes, “Not everyone wants to be a kiss-ass to Sarge and win his adoration like you.”

No, for some of them fighting was just a means to have a safe roof over their sister’s head and enough money for food.  It was stability and security that he’d be hard-pressed to find elsewhere.

Grif glanced over at the frowning, lankier man standing next to him and his eyes caught the metal arm that never quite moved right.  He looked away.

What he said was true.  Dexter Grif wasn’t like Simmons, who had come to train with Sarge in order to escape a way too demanding family and find himself, only to then get injured and nearly thrown away again if he hadn’t had a mind for training and data-collecting.

Or if he didn’t help to motivate one lazy asshole.  Just a little bit.  …Not that Grif would ever admit it to the redhead currently sulking next to him.

No, life was too comfortable and too stable right now for Grif to ever risk it by applying _effort_.  But, he wasn’t about to explain all of that to his fuming friend.

“Let’s just get home, Simmons,” he said instead, “The couch is calling me.”

*****

_The first time they had met was when Simmons joined their mismatched group when Grif had been twenty-two._

_They didn’t care much for each other at first, so naturally to Sarge that meant they would make the best sparring partners.  Oddly enough, the crazy old fighter was right at the time._

_Their daily attempts to beat the living shit out of one another, their constant bickering and name-calling?  Against all odds, it had somehow developed into a strong rapport as time went on._

_There was a fondness to their insults, a lingering eye contact between blows._

_They had even stayed well into the night after everyone else had left the training room.  When they were alone together, they would talk about nothing and everything.  Grif had never been happier._

_Simmons wanted to get to the top, and he was oddly inspiring even to an apathetic person like Grif._

_Then the accident had happened.  Prosthetic limbs and crippled arms were against fighting rules, and as a result Simmons’ main job became just as an assistant to the rest of Red Team._

_Suddenly getting to the top didn’t seem so important, especially since Simmons couldn’t advance with him._

_So, Grif stopped trying in general._

*****

After dinner, Grif stopped by the training hall on a whim.  He supposed he was feeling oddly nostalgic, especially since Simmons had still refused to talk to him following their walk home.

As was expected, the place was empty at this time of night.  Or it would have been save for a gleam of something metallic in the far back corner of the space, followed by the sound of a punching bag being smacked and a sharp intake of pained breath.

“Simmons?”

Grif flicked the lights on, surprised to see the redhead hunched over in the corner of the hall, sweat covering his body.

From his hunched over position and wince, it looked as if he was in pain.  Grif raced over when he saw his flesh hand gripping the shoulder where metal fused with organic material.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He felt an angry, almost protective feeling wash over him.

“What does it look like, fat-ass?” Simmons seethed through gritted teeth, “I’m training because _someone_ fucking pissed me off!”

“With the arm that can’t stand too much stress?” Grif gripped his other shoulder and helped pull him up, “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one!”

Simmons shoved him off with a thrust of his metal arm, choosing to ignore that the motion made him wince even more, “Well, I thought you had the ability!”

The punch he threw next was with his flesh hand, and Grif barely dodged it as he was sent stumbling backwards.  It was true that he had more power due to his size, but Simmons had the advantage in speed.  Grif barely had time to move under the next assault, using his momentum to grapple Simmons around the torso and pin him to the ground.

“Simmons, calm the fuck down!” He told his friend, both angry at the sudden attack but also worried at the pain he saw flashing in Simmons’ eyes.

“I—I can’t fight anymore, Grif, but you can!” Simmons was practically sobbing now, though he’d totally deny it if he was called out on it, “You keep fucking _wasting_ that and—!“

The redhead was surprised and caught off-guard when Grif’s lips crashed onto his.  In another second, he was returning the gesture just as needy and desperate as Grif was.

By the time they pulled apart and were lying side-by-side on the mats, panting, Grif had already interlaced their fingers together and met Simmons’ questioning gaze head-on.

“There’s no point in trying to advance if you’re not there with me, Simmons.”

Simmons looked at him incredulously, “ _That’s_ it?”

“Well, I _am_ lazy too, and if I got injured—“

“Sarge would still let you work here no problem, especially with the new Chorus team needing training,” Simmons reasoned while cutting the tan-skinned man off, “And we all know you’re lazy as fuck.”

He frowned, “Yeah, but—”

“You _do_ know I’d be making sure you were training every step of the way, right?  That’s _my_ job, fat-ass.” Simmons continued as if he hadn’t heard the other man’s attempt at excuse-making, “You couldn’t fucking get rid of me even if you tried.”

“Wouldn’t want to.” Grif admitted, shrugging, “Not anymore.”

“Besides, I wouldn’t let you.” Simmons grinned.

Grif raised an eyebrow at that, “So I actually put effort into being angst-ridden for nothing then?”

Simmons nodded, smirking, “Yes, because you never pay attention worth shit!”

Grif grinned when, despite his annoyance, Simmons actually snuggled closer to him.  He squeezed his fingers gently in a reassuring gesture.

“Listening’s for chumps and kiss-asses like you, Simmons.” He joked, “But, I’m sorry I got you upset for nothing.”

“You need to apologize for a lot of shit then,” the redhead smiled, “Which you probably won’t since it means you’d have to actually do something.”

“But we’re in this together?” Grif asked.

Simmons nodded, “Would have totally kicked your ass if it weren’t for that last surprise attack.”

From his face reddening just then, Grif knew he was referring to the kiss.

He smirked, “I dunno.  To me, that counts more as motivation.” Grif informed Simmons, “You should totally put that into your usual training routine.”

The dark-haired man laughed at the way Simmons’ spluttered at the suggestion before leaning forward and closing the distance between them once more, hands still entwined the whole time.

Yeah, Dexter Grif was totally fine with this kind of training, and he was especially glad to know Simmons was too.

They could get anywhere they needed to go together.  No matter what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an older story of mine and I was never quite sure what I wanted to do with it. I finally decided to post it here since it was just sitting in my notebook! It was originally meant to be the start of a longer story. That sort of fizzled out as I wrote it up, but I still think this stands on its own as a short story. Hopefully it was at least somewhat enjoyable to read. Thank you for taking the time to read it! ♥


	10. If

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Grif contemplates how his life could have been different if he hadn’t been dragged into a pointless war._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~Bitthews  
> ~Tuckington  
> ~Docnut  
> ~Kimbalina  
> ~Sarge x Grey
> 
>  **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

If Dexter Grif hadn’t been drafted into a pointless war in the middle of nowhere, he would be at home in Hawaii.  Maybe at some point even attending college, and somehow earning a steady income away from color-coded soldiers, crazy-ass sergeants, homicidal Freelancers, and war on a genocidal scale.

He could be eating all the fucking Oreos he ever wanted to eat right about now or napping wherever the fuck he wanted.  Not that he didn’t try to at least do that whenever he could anyways.  Damn it, even in a dumb-ass war, a man’s got to live!  There are some principles you just can’t break, no matter the situation.  Obviously.

…Still, if Dexter Grif’s role in the war hadn’t been the unlucky result of a stupid fucking one man draft, he wouldn’t have become the sole survivor of an attack that had scarred him more than he let on.

_Some nights were worse than others, and he would wake up screaming in a cold sweat.  Simmons never reprimanded him then.  The redhead never looked at him in disgust during those moments at least.  Not that the kiss-ass would ever say anything about it out loud._

_Instead, the nerd would sit next to him on the thin mattress—almost touching.  Simmons provided a supportive warmth until the shaking stopped.  Afterwards, Grif would find that he was able to fall into blissful sleep yet again._

_The dark-haired man would do the same when the favor needed to be returned.  Not that he’d ever admit it out loud either._

_However, whenever he found a quivering and sobbing Simmons with bloody knuckles standing over a shattered mirror, Grif would silently help him clean up and sit with him until the maroon-wearing soldier was calm again._

If Dexter Grif hadn’t been pulled into this pointless, crappy-ass conflict, he would still be very much whole and happy.  His body would not be a patchwork of tan and pale and freckled skin, with one eye brown and the other green, with organs he was constantly being told were only “on loan” to him.

…It wouldn’t take him months of staring into a mirror before he once again could recognize that it was in fact Dexter Grif who he saw reflected back.

 _Simmons was out jogging again.  It was one of the rare instances in the weeks following the surgery when the redhead would be out of armor.  The sight was both entrancing and upsetting all at once: Simmons was practically_ glistening _in the sunlight while Grif stood watching him with stolen parts._

_“Fat-ass!  You’re up early.” Simmons stated, surprise lighting up his features as though the sight of his lazy teammate standing there in the morning meant the universe was somehow ending that very moment._

_Grif thought about telling him the truth, about saying how he sometimes got up early to enjoy the view of his lankier teammate running.  But, wisely, the orange-wearing soldier decided to give Simmons the finger instead, “What are_ you _doing up, kiss-ass?”_

_“When the cybernetics hurt, sometimes a run is the only thing that loosens them up.” The other man explained quietly in reply as a frown graced his features._

_Right.  Because lazy-ass Grif wasn’t the only one affected by what had happened.  He could feel the Irish coffee in the mug he was holding going lukewarm.  Great.  Now he needed to squish down that little pang of guilt before it started to put a serious dent in his breakfast appetite._

_“Why’d you do it, anyway?” Grif asked in a low voice, not really expecting much of an answer to the inquiry he’d been wondering about ever since waking up from the surgery.  He just figured half-assed curiosity was better than guilt over shit he couldn’t control._

_Simmons’ still flesh and blood facial features turned red all the way to his metallic face plating, “Be—because Sarge was going to do it anyways and I…” he rambled in an equally quiet voice, “I didn’t want you to die.”_

_There was an awkward silence following with Grif offering the cyborg a sip of his coffee in the midst of it.  The lecture he got when Simmons realized it contained alcohol filled the entire canyon for a good twenty minutes._

If Dexter Grif hadn’t been involved in the war, his little sister wouldn’t have followed him right into it. 

…Bright-eyed Kaikaina could have had a great life of her own instead of being dragged down into this mess with the rest of them.

_”She’s not dead.” Grif repeated emphatically when the door to their shared room in Valhalla closed._

_He was finally alone with Simmons.  Away from the sympathetic glances of Donut, the commentary from Sarge, and the mechanical fucking Spanish words from Lopez that the chubby man had wished he could just tune out despite how they seemed to follow them into the quiet room._

_The kiss-ass looked completely torn on what to say or do in this situation, “Grif, I know but…”_

_“There’s no_ but _, Simmons.” He sat down on his bed, staring into emptiness, “There’s no way that’s true.  She’s dumb as fuck, but she’s_ strong _.”_

 _Lopez had gotten it wrong. Grif knew that.  So, why the fuck was he still_ crying _?_

_“I know.” Simmons said gently, standing right in front of him, “Y—you’re right, Grif.  Of course you are.”_

_“D—damn straight.”_

_When he reached up and pulled Simmons down to sit beside him, the cyborg didn’t protest.  When Grif happened to also wipe the tears that his body betrayed him with on the redhead’s shoulder, Simmons didn’t say anything about it either._

If Dexter Grif hadn’t been dragged into this stupid-as-fuck war comprised pretty much entirely of Blue Team problems, he wouldn’t have been nearly killed quite so often.

…Both he and Kaikaina would be home safe and sound while he watched the waves at night.  Life would be peaceful.  Relaxing.  The boring kind of shit he craved.

_Simmons glanced at the beer in his hands with obvious trepidation._

_“Come on, Simmons, what do you say?” Grif asked him, “It’s not every day you survive getting thrown off a cliff.”_

_That seemed to be enough of an excuse to celebrate as any.  Eventually Simmons agreed to share a few drinks with Grif in light of what they’d all been through recently._

_As the night wore on, Simmons’ screaming his name and the feel of his hand desperately trying to keep a grip on his kept on bouncing back into Grif’s mind.  It lingered like an alcoholic buzz, or the hangover they were both definitely going to have tomorrow._

_“Hey, Simmons?” Grif finally got up the nerve to ask._

_There was a hiccupped “Hmm?” from a beyond buzzed Simmons leaning heavily against his shoulder.  The nerd was a total fucking lightweight._

_“Why’d you…?” Grif began, though the chubbier man stopped himself from finishing the question and simply let it hang in the air between them as he took another swig of beer._

_Instead, he stared down at their hands sitting so perfectly close together, barely resisting the drunken urge he had to suddenly interlace their fingers._

_“I don’t want you to die, Grif.”_

_The orange-wearing soldier hadn’t expected an answer, so his voice caught in his throat at the one he got._

If the Red and Blue Teams hadn’t been caught up in all of this stupidly pointless fighting, then perhaps they wouldn’t have ended up stranded on Chorus.  Maybe Epsilon wouldn’t have sacrificed himself for his asshole friends either.  Perhaps Donut, Tucker, and Sarge could have even avoided their extended hospital stays too.

Then Grif could have also avoided awkward hospital visitation moments.  Such as walking in on some of the more personal moments between Donut and Doc on more than one occasion, as well as some of those same kind of particular moments between Tucker and Washington.  From what he was unlucky enough to witness, he was also pretty sure Doctor Grey’s visits with Sarge often stretched the boundaries of patient and doctor quite a bit.

If they hadn’t fought Hargrove’s forces, then perhaps so many of them wouldn’t be recovering from potentially serious injuries now.  They wouldn’t have wounds and scars from a war they’d been tossed into yet again with no warning.

Even Lopez was still locked in heavy repairs, though the robot always seemed like he was getting more and more energetically exasperated every time Grif saw him.  Not that Grif could really tell since the guy only spoke Spanish, for fuck’s sake!

If they weren’t on Chorus, maybe they wouldn’t be so fucking sad and depressed over the fact that there were fights most likely waiting for them on the horizon still.

…Dexter Grif would be smiling happily in the sunlight, a bright future waiting for him instead.

_Following his hospital visits for the day, Grif found Simmons standing beside the hospital room where Bitters was watching over a recuperating Matthews.  Miraculously, he, Simmons, Doc, and Caboose had somehow only gotten through the fight with minor scrapes.  The chubby man just equated it to one of life’s great mysteries._

_As he approached Simmons watching the two lieutenants holding hands, Grif heard a sniffle.  Sure enough, when he turned around to look at the cyborg, Simmons was hastily wiping at his eyes to cover up the fact that he had been moved to tears yet again._

_“Hey,” Grif greeted, holding up the two beer cans he had managed to procure from Kimball and Carolina’s not-so-secret stash, “Figured we could use the booze.”_

_For once, Simmons merely nodded his head instead of protesting and reprimanding like a little bitch._

It was true.  A lot of things would be different if Dexter Grif hadn’t been placed on Red Team.  A lot of them, he knew, would probably have been for the better.  But, _if_ he hadn’t been placed in such a shitastic fight?  Well, if he hadn’t been, then he wouldn’t have met Richard “Dick” Simmons.

_He guided them gently back to their makeshift room in Chorus to sit on his bed.  Simmons’ head rested on his shoulder as Grif’s arm wrapped tightly, reassuringly, around the redhead’s waist and the beer forgotten._

…In this moment, he wasn’t sure any of those “what if” possibilities would be worth missing this over.

_Grif kissed Simmons’ forehead where flesh met metal as he pulled both of them backwards to lie down for a long overdue nap._

…Actually, he was pretty fucking positive about that fact.  After all these years spent in a horrible-as-all-fuck war, he found that life was too freaking short to be filled with angst all the time.

He was Dexter Grif, an apathetic soldier in orange armor with an annoying kiss-ass always by his side.  Not to mention, as Simmons pressed closer to his body, he was just too fucking lazy to spend time on regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I don’t have a Tumblr, I technically can’t actively participate in the ongoing Angst War. However, my sister, who is not feeling well and is also my awesome beta, requested a Grimmons story from me but "in my own personal angst style." Naturally, I could not refuse her request. :D Thus, this little plot idea got stuck in my head and demanded to be written down. Honestly, I think my sister said what she did because she knows that I don’t write angst all that often. So, this is more my own take on writing an angsty story: Angst with a Comfort/Healing angle to it. XD
> 
> At any rate, I hope it wasn’t too terrible or confusing of a read and that you enjoyed it! :D


	11. Gift Giving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Simmons notices that Grif has certain habits when it comes to giving gifts._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

Richard “Dick” Simmons wasn’t sure when he had first noticed it, but occasionally the redhead witnessed Dexter Grif picking an item up or somehow getting something ordered that actually _wasn’t_ even intended for his lazy ass.

At first it was things like a tube of lip stick, a ring, a purse.  As time passed, the list went on to include movies, mugs, and shirts.  Souvenir-like items such as keychains would disappear from Grif’s room as quickly as he got them.

Not that Simmons inventoried the room or anything, mind you!  It wasn’t like he had a designated spot for checking the orange-armored soldier’s room on his chore wheel.  Okay, so _maybe_ he did.  The cyborg couldn’t help it if he was both annoyingly inquisitive and liked being organized, damn it!

Simmons _tried_ not saying anything about the objects in question even though it was a true test of willpower on his part to not say anything.  But, naturally, that only lasted until his curiosity got the better of him.

So, one night he finally asked about the mysterious items.  The question was blurted out in an anxious rush when he and Grif were sitting on the roof of the base alone together, something that had become routine for the two Red soldiers without their realizing it.

“Oh, _those_?” Grif asked Simmons back as he looked at the butt of the cigarette he had just discarded as disinterestedly as he seemed to be in this conversation, “They’re gifts.”

“Gifts?” Simmons repeated, surprised at the apathetic admission.

“Yeah.  For Kai.” The tan skinned man shrugged, “She’s the only person I’ve ever bothered buying shit for.  Guess the habit stuck.”

Simmons didn’t ask about the gifts again following that, figuring there wasn’t much else Grif would bother to add.  Still, the lankier man couldn’t help but feel touched by the gesture ( _don’t cry, damn it!_ ) as no one had ever bothered buying him gifts growing up.

*****

Grif was currently staring at him, making Simmons feel even more awkward than usual.  …Which most of the other Reds and even the Blues would probably consider quite a feat considering “ _awkward_ ” was a description of his normal, everyday personality.

It had been weeks since the incident with the Meta.  The redhead had been so terrified that he’d lost Grif, but he didn’t want to dwell on _why_ that was now that he could just be relieved that he hadn’t.

Simmons had the distinct feeling that Grif had been trying to avoid talking privately with him despite how his eyes always seemed to be following the cyborg wherever he went.  The maroon-armored soldier wasn’t sure why, nor did he want to admit that it _hurt_.

“Simmons.”

The pale man blinked, having been so caught up in his thoughts that he hadn’t realized that Grif had spoken.  The chubbier soldier was staring at Simmons, obviously expecting some kind of a response.

“Y—yes?” Simmons managed to squeak out, inwardly cursing the high-pitched anxious tilt to his voice.

Grif looked oddly intense when he asked, “When’s your birthday?”

And, because Grif could be a major asshole when it came to pranks, Simmons couldn’t help but narrow his eyes suspiciously at the question, “…Why?”

Whatever Grif was going to say next was interrupted by Sarge bellowing for both of them from nearby.  A second later, it seemed as if the birthday question was evidently forgotten.

*****

At first, Simmons couldn’t believe his eyes.  A natural green eye and a red cybernetic eye both blinked, staring at the screwdriver that was wrapped with a hastily, and rather sloppily, made bow on his pillow.  The redhead’s mind was trying to process just what it was he was seeing.

“It’s for your arm.” Grif elaborated lazily a second later, “It should fit those screws better than the shitty one you have now does.”

“You got me a gift?” Simmons’ voice was barely above a whisper.

_Don’t cry, Simmons, damn it!  Don’t cry!_

The two of them had only just finally revealed how they _sort of_ liked the other and had _maybe_ made out a few times in whatever privacy Chorus allowed.  So, now this?

Grif rubbed the back of his head awkwardly, “Well, you never told me your birthday, so I figured _why not today_?”

It was the perfect, lazy-as-all fuck answer from Dexter Grif, and Simmons had to hastily wipe at his eyes.

“Dude, are you crying?” Grif asked in amusement, leaning in for a better look at Simmons’ face.

“Am…am not!” Simmons gave him the finger promptly and shoved at his chest, touch lingering, “Fat-ass.”

“Kiss-ass.” Grif was smiling.

“You got me a gift.” He couldn’t help repeating it in wonder.

The chubbier man hesitated then, looking doubtful, “Y—yeah.  Look, if you don’t want it or something—”

“No!” Simmons surprised both of them with his vehemence as he cut the other man off, “No.  No, I’m definitely keeping it.”  He smiled thankfully at Grif as he picked up the screwdriver, “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Grif smiled back.

They hugged quickly, the embrace probably saying even more than they meant it to before they hastily pulled away from one another.  They slipped so naturally right back into that comfortable silence they really only appreciated when in each other’s presence.

Simmons looked down at the screwdriver thoughtfully, grinning, “If I told you my actual birthday,” he began jokingly, “Would I get two gifts?”

Grif smirked back, “Don’t get greedy, Simmons.”

Simmons wasn’t.  Not really.

In fact, his mind was already swimming with all of the possibilities for gifts that he could get for Grif since he had the other’s birthday already marked in his organized and not-at-all-nerdy day planner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fluffy Grimmons story for my sister who loves her fluff! :D Thank you for taking the time to read this, and I hope that you enjoyed the story as well! :)


	12. When You've Gotta Go...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Post-Season 13. Grif wakes up in a hospital room without Simmons there._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~Bitthews  
> ~Docnut
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~Post-Season 13, so there might be some slight spoilers regarding Church.
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

Sometimes staying at Chorus really sucked.  Of course, the buzz and humming of the hospital machinery was what made it worse currently.  Well, that and the sterile stench of disinfectant filling the space.  It was impossible to escape the odor of cleanliness that was so foreign to him.

Dexter Grif had always hated hospitals.  He wasn’t fond of visiting them or being a patient at one.  He supposed that, for the most part, being alive in a hospital was better than the alternative of being dead outside of one, but still!

It wasn’t like the orange-armored solider needed much of a reason to bitch and complain.  After all, what would have been r _eally_ ideal was if that bullet hadn’t hit the dumb cyborg in the first place, especially since it had happened while they had been waiting for rescue.  Simmons had the worst timing ever.

Grif didn’t think he had ever worked so hard in dragging someone _else_ through a hail of bullets as he had done back then.  Fuck it, even _Sarge_ had been impressed!

_If Grif had been a kiss-ass like_ someone else _he knew, all of his daddy issues would have been resolved with the Red Team leader’s awkward praise.  Let’s not forget that it_ was _Grif whom Sarge was addressing in the rescue transport that was taking them back to safety.  The older soldier looked like he had thrown up a little when he said_ “Good hustle, dirtbag!” _So, not wanting to throw their entire dynamic totally out of whack since shit was stressful and weird enough as it was, the chubby man apathetically told his “superior” officer to_ “Fuck off, sir.”  _Just like the good old times._

So now, here Grif was, sitting in one of those hospital rooms that he has always hated.  The tan-skinned soldier was currently just waiting for a stupid nerd to wake up so they could talk and act like nothing almost life-altering had happened again.  There would be no fanfare or fancy hero homecoming at all.

That wasn’t their style and Grif, who just wanted their usual routine back, was perfectly fine with that.  He was, after all, inclined to taking it easy when he could.  He’d been making a lot of progress with training the neurotic kiss-ass in question to do so as well.

The others had already come and gone for the day.  Sarge, Lopez, and Donut had visited together in what they referred to as Red Team solidarity.  Well, Sarge and Donut called it that.  Grif still honestly had no fucking clue what Lopez said.  The Red Team trio were then followed by Doc and then the lieutenants as the group of rookies had come to visit both the captain and Matthews.  They were then followed by a visiting Blue Team, who were still mourning the loss of Church but united together.  Understandably given the circumstances, they didn’t stay too long.

Visiting hours had long since passed, but the medical staff would have to forcibly drag Grif away by this point.  They must have taken one look at the chubby soldier and decided it wasn’t worth the effort.  Besides, it wasn’t as if Grif was alone in his “rebelling against visiting hours” protest since Bitters was at the side of the other bed in the small hospital room, remaining staunchly vigilant over Matthews.  Like a true maverick.

…Bored as fuck while he waited for Richard “Dick” Simmons to wake up, Dexter Grif dozed off himself.

*****

It was Donut’s _humming_ that eventually woke Grif up, so he couldn’t help but glare at the pink-wearing soldier when he opened his dark eyes.

“Good morning, Grif!” Donut stated cheerily enough, a purple-and-pink ribboned picnic basket in hand, “You’re up awfully late today!”

“Fuck off, Donut.” He gave his overly-happy teammate the finger for good measure, body somewhat sore from the awkward sleeping position he had been in before.

Had he really slept here the whole night?  Fuck.  That wasn’t going to do much for the apathetic reputation he tried so hard to maintain.  It was a lot of effort on Grif’s part to pretend not to care.

A just as haggard-looking as Grif felt Bitters was sitting by Matthews’ bedside, holding the now awake but still somewhat groggy-looking Matthews’ hand.  The kiss-ass kid was going to be fine, but he still needed bedrest for a few more days.

Kiss-ass?  That description made Grif remember someone else.  He looked down towards the bedside that he had been sitting next to…

…The now empty one.

“Where’s Simmons?” Grif asked, voice belying his panic.

What if the medics had found something else wrong and the redhead had been pulled into surgery again without them telling him?!?

“Oh.” Donut’s gleeful expression turned crestfallen, “I’m afraid he had to go, Grif.”

With those words, Grif was already up and running out the door without waiting for whatever else Donut might say.  For a fat-ass, he sure could run fast when he wanted to.

Donut sighed, glancing at the thoughtful basket still in his hands, “Aww, no one seems to want to sit down and enjoy the banana nut bread that Doc and I made last night!  We tweaked the recipe so that it has even more nuts too!  Having more nuts help you heal quicker.  Doc told me!”

The dirty blond glanced over at Bitters and Matthews hopefully then, Bitters going _“Oh, fuck.”_ while Matthews smiled and squeezed his hand reassuringly before saying _“That’s an excellent idea, sir!”_ as Donut skipped on over to the two lieutenants.

*****

After scouring the hospital for any trace of Simmons, to which the orange-armored soldier found there was none and several doctors became perturbed by his loud intrusions, Grif found himself at his and Simmons’ shared living quarters in Chorus.

The dark-haired man opened the door to the now far-too quiet and suffocating-ly empty room, heart hammering in his chest.  He was unsure of what to do next.  Where could the fucking nerd be?

Maybe sucking it up and asking Donut would be the best solution, but a part of him was terrified at what the youngest member of Red Team would say.  …Also, he was terrified of the picnic basket, since no good came from anything Donut and Doc produced together even if it was edible.

The chubby man was startled out of his thoughts by the sound of a toilet flushing.  Suddenly, _Simmons_ was standing there and looking just as confused by Grif’s presence as he was by the cyborg’s.

Grif broke the stalemate first, “You’ve been _here_ this whole fucking time?  I’ve been looking for you!”

Simmons’ face took on a reddish, indignant hue and he began to speak a mile a minute, “Well, I’m sorry you’re such a heavy sleeper, fat-ass!  I tried waking you and you wouldn’t fucking budge and I really had to go, and Matthews was there and…!”

The lanky man paused to breathe, an embarrassed flush illuminating his pale-as-fuck freckled skin.  Right, Grif had almost forgotten that Simmons had _major_ bathroom issues.

The cyborg looked away sheepishly as he fumbled to continue, “…And I had to go home to…you _know_.”

“So you just _left_ the hospital?” Grif asked incredulously.

“I asked Doctor Grey first!” Simmons huffed, “Besides, I wouldn’t even still be there if you hadn’t insisted on it to use me as an excuse to shirk your duties.  I had a fucking shoulder wound, Grif.  I’m not going to _not pee_ because you’re a fucking lazy ass who doesn’t want to work!”

He vaguely remembered telling Simmons that once.  It was a partial truth.  Even people like Washington, Carolina, and Kimball left you alone and didn’t bother you about military duties if you’re visiting someone in the hospital.  But, he also had just thought that the nerd should rest more after getting shot, and keeping an obsessive worker like Simmons in the hospital was one of the only ways to do that.  It had basically been a win-win for both of them.

But, then another thought crossed Grif’s mind at what Simmons had said and he grinned smugly, “Wait.  So, you’re telling me that you think of _here_ as home?”

He wasn’t sure why, but something about that had him feeling happy even if part of him wanted to mock the crap out of the socially-awkward nerd.

Simmons blushed, “Don’t make it weird.” He mumbled.

It wasn’t weird.  For them at any rate.  After deliberating for a few seconds, Grif decided he wanted to have a proper homecoming for Simmons, especially now that he knew he was all right.

“Since you’re here, want to watch some porn together?” Grif asked the maroon-wearing soldier then, still grinning deviously as he sprawled out on his well-worn mattress to find his indention.

Simmons visibly relaxed at the invitation, “I thought you’d never ask.”

He sat down next to Grif on his bed, and Grif looked over at him seriously, “Afterwards, it’s back to the hospital for you.” He stated, “Deal?”

Simmons smiled, “Deal.  But, I’m fucking showering here and using the toilet again before going back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a birthday gift for my sister, who had the idea for this post-Season 13 fic and thought it might be a fun one for me to write out! :D I hope you enjoyed it, sis. :)


	13. Effort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Simmons gets upset over something and runs off, leaving Grif to find him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~Tuckington  
> ~Sarge x Doctor Grey  
> ~Kimbalina  
> ~Jensen x Palomo  
> ~Bitthews  
> ~Docnut
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~Post-Season 13
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

_Where the fuck would someone hide in a shitty town like this?_

Dexter Grif couldn’t help but ask himself that very question for what was undoubtedly the umpteenth time as he walked through the quickly rebuilding streets of Armonia searching for one Richard “Dick” Simmons.

Wasn’t like there was a Comic Con going on right now.  That wasn’t until next month, something the chubby soldier knew because the currently missing redhead had already been busy planning their matching cosplay outfits.

…Secretly, Grif kind of liked the nerd’s picks, but he was getting too much of a kick pissing Simmons off by vetoing every idea.  Never let it be said that Grif didn’t try to maintain his asshole reputation.  He enjoyed it too fucking much, especially when it annoyed the hell out of Simmons.

He was running out of “nerd places” to search, and there was still no maroon-armored soldier in sight.  Naturally, that left Grif asking a simple fucking question: if he was a nerdy kiss-ass like Simmons, where the hell would he be? 

Fuck, Grif was so desperate he had even checked with _Sarge_ of all people, though the older man in red was too busy making googly eyes at Doctor Grey to even effectively threaten him as per their usual interactions.  Sarge’s crazy hard-on was so obvious that Grif had to quickly step out of the clinic before he witnessed things that he’d have to bleach his brain for.

The next person he had tried to ask about Simmons was Jensen.  However, the braces-wearing brunette was too preoccupied with showing Palomo how to use a fire extinguisher to know where her captain was, both lieutenants oddly red-faced about something-or-other when he had asked.  They didn’t have his answer, so Grif couldn’t bring himself to care about whatever it was they seemed embarrassed by.

Next was Lopez, who was as generally unhelpful as always.  The brown-armored robot simply muttered something in Spanish, walking away before Grif had even finished asking the question about Simmons’ whereabouts.

Donut had been preoccupied with getting ready for his fifth official date with Doc, so Grif didn’t even bother asking him. The apathetic man didn’t feel like he was up for a _sixth_ conversation on appropriate date wear from the youngest member of Red Team, and given how focused Donut was on fabric patterns he seriously doubted the pink-wearing man had even seen Simmons.

The Reds were pretty much no help, so that left him with no choice but to start asking the Blues.  Not that he was expecting better results given the fact that it seemed like Simmons had gone out of his way to make himself scarce.  Asshole.

Grif would be super pissed ( _and maybe a little proud_ ) if he found out that Simmons had snuck away to nap and shirk duties without fucking inviting him along too.

“Doesn’t he have a GPS signal you could use to track him?” Tucker had inquired from his apartment’s doorway when Grif had finally gotten around to asking him if the dark-skinned man had seen Simmons.

“That’s me, dude.” Grif had scoffed in return, “Pay attention.”

Tucker raised his teal-armored hands up in the air, “Hey, whatever you two do in your married life is your business.”

“Wait a minute.” Washington spoke up from behind Tucker just then, “Simmons put a _tracker_ on you?”

Grif really didn’t want to dwell on what Tucker and Washington had been doing before he had knocked on the door given their flushed faces.  Honestly, he questioned why Tucker had opened said door to begin with.  But, then Grif remembered it was Tucker he was talking about and the Meta suit wearing man probably wanted all of Chorus to know that he was finally getting some from _anyone_ ( _“Bow-chika-bow-wow!”_ ).

“What, like that isn’t normal?” Grif raised a dark-colored eyebrow incredulously, leaving before an obviously flabbergasted Washington could say anything else on the subject.

Well, _that_ had turned out to be a fucking waste of time.  Like practically most of his fucking time in the military.  Why should anything be different?

He didn’t even bother checking in with Caboose, knowing that the blue-armored soldier was on a “ _super-secret mission_ ” of tag with Freckles and Andersmith thanks to Tucker wanting to have time alone with Washington for the night ( _“Bow-chika-bow-wow!”_ ).

Grif also wasn’t nearly suicidal enough to bother Carolina and Kimball on the rare evening that they took off together.  There probably wouldn’t be any safety cones to protect his balls this time around.

He had nearly been tempted to order Bitters and Matthews to help him in his search, because the auburn-haired kiss-ass in particular would have jumped at the opportunity to help his captain.  But, then Grif had remembered that Matthews was still on medical leave due to recovering from his injury, and he didn’t feel like being _that_ much of a jackass to Bitters to pull him from the yellow-trimmed lieutenant’s side.

Which meant that it was just going to be him searching the streets of the reconstructed Armonia for Simmons, and his fat-ass was currently getting nowhere.

Grif sighed.  He was feeling hungry, worried, and annoyed all at once.  Tired too.  What he fucking wouldn’t do for a nap right about now…

Just as he was about to pass out in the middle of the street right then and there, out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of short red hair and a lanky frame walking directly in front of him…

“Simmons!” Grif reached out and grabbed the person’s back shoulder, spinning them around to face him.

But, the “ _Where the fuck have you been?_ ” that nearly passed his lips halted as the woman he had just latched onto looked to be of the mind to pepper spray him or beat him to death with her purse.

“Sorry.” He muttered under his breath, resulting in an annoyed eye roll from the woman as she turned around to talk to her friend about military people being rude.  The tan-skinned man gave her back the finger just for good measure.

“…Grif?” A familiar voice suddenly spoke up behind him in surprise.

Grif couldn’t help but roll his eyes then as he turned to face the cyborg.  It figured that, after all the effort he had put into finding the neurotic kiss-ass, Simmons would fucking find him first.

What an asshole.

*****

The café had been one of the first “ _entertainment areas_ ” that had been hastily rebuilt in Armonia following the war, and it showed in how haphazard the construction was.  Still, they made some kick-ass coffee here.  So, it was no surprise that a coffee addict like Simmons would come to this place to “ _talk_.”

…Only, much to Grif’s chagrin, the dumb nerd _wasn’t_ talking.  Instead, Simmons was staring sullenly down at the table, his coffee all but forgotten.  As was, apparently, the chubby man seated across from him.

It was really starting to piss Grif the fuck off.

“You know,” he began quietly, just to get things moving along, “I get it.  I really do.”

Simmons said nothing, but he looked up from what was apparently a fascinating coffee-stained metallic tabletop.  Both Simmons’ green organic eye and red cybernetic one were wide and questioning in his pale, freckled face.

“We all finally received messages from our families.  After what seems like fucking forever for some of us.” Grif recalled out loud what had happened that had gotten the other man so upset that he had quite literally run away while inwardly recalling how happy he had been to finally get a message from his sister after so long, “…Everyone except you.”

Simmons let out a sad little sigh, eyes wandering back down to his coffee mug as he tapped a cybernetic finger on the table, “I…I don’t even know why I got as upset as I did.” He stated sheepishly as metal pinged on metal, “It’s not like I should have expected my dad to put in any effort.  Not when it comes to a son like me.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s because he is an asshole.  Plain and simple.” Grif stated so clearly that Simmons couldn’t help but look up at him in surprise.  Grif smirked at Simmons’ reaction, “Do you have any idea how long I spent searching for your kiss-ass self?  You fucking asshole.”

“I…” Simmons trailed off, wincing apologetically.  The redhead’s voice sounded like he was holding back tears.  Fucking anxiety-ridden crybaby.  Talk about confidence issues.

“But I’d do it every time.” Grif cut the maroon-wearing man’s tears off, “Fuck it, man.  If you came home with me right now, I’d even help you clean the place for a month.  You know how much I fucking hate doing that shit.”

Simmons’ face turned red at Grif calling the apartment that they shared “ _home._ ”

“Because, and fucking _trust_ me when I say this, Simmons,” Grif continued on seriously, a lazy smile forming on his face, “You are totally worth the fucking effort.  Most of the time.”

Through the tears that were starting to form in his eyes, Simmons couldn’t help but smile back as he replied: “Thanks, fat-ass.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came from the writing prompt _“Where would someone hide in a town like this?”_ , and it is also my contribution to the Monty Oum Project’s February 4th _“start something new”_ initiative. I think honoring such a creative and talented individual with creative works is a lovely sentiment. Rest in peace, Monty Oum. Thank you for inspiring us with your creative legacy.


	14. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Grif confesses something and it leaves Simmons unsure of how to respond._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~Docnut
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~Post-Season 13
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

“What was that?” Richard “Dick” Simmons’ voice was surprisingly calm when he spoke, although there was a definite anxiety-fueled edge to it that wasn’t there before.

Dexter Grif didn’t seem to register the redhead’s tone.  That, or, the chubby man just didn’t care much since he shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly in response, “You heard me.”

The cyborg had to admit that Grif had him there.  Obviously, Simmons had heard Grif.  It was just that the _content_ of the orange-wearing soldier’s previous words had left him so inwardly flustered while outwardly cool and detached.

Grif had been oddly moody and pensive the entire day, which had been rather odd to Simmons considering they had all just had a party the previous night at Donut’s insistence to celebrate Doc’s getting out of the hospital following their near escape from Hargrove’s ship.

Even though his social awkwardness made parties difficult, the redhead had to admit that the celebration had been something that they’d all needed after what had happened with Epsilon.  Besides, Simmons knew that Grif had enjoyed himself there.  In fact, the chubby man probably enjoyed the party _way_ too much considering that Simmons had been forced to carry his fat drunk ass back to their shared room following it.  Thank fuck for cybernetic arm strength!

The maroon-armored soldier could _still_ recall the heavy, solid weight of Grif leaning into his side far too closely as they’d shambled through the hallways, ignoring the questioning looks from passersby.  He could still remember how Grif had leaned into him with his arm slung tightly over Simmons’ shoulders, whispering drunken, rambling promises about how he would take Simmons home with him when all of this war shit was said and done.

Honestly?  Simmons was pretty used to Grif saying things like that when he was drunk, so his heart only sped up a little now whenever he heard those words from his chubby partner.  He still recalled Grif drunkenly telling him once how he’d like for them to have a kid together, or how they should “ _totally get fucking married already_.”

The “ _taking Simmons home_ ” topic often came up here on Chorus, most likely due to how homesick everyone was by now.  Grif was especially homesick, and Simmons knew he had even missed his home back when they had been stationed in Blood Gulch and Valhalla too.

…When he sobered up, Grif would go back to his lazy asshole self and act like nothing had ever happened.  He never seemed to remember their drunken conversations together, and that served Simmons just fine.

Really.  _Totally_.

But, despite the obviously good time that Grif had the previous night, he was more pensive and seemingly more frustrated than usual when he woke up the next day.  At first, Simmons had attributed it to a probably justified hangover.  But, then he noticed that Grif refused to meet his eyes, and that the tan-skinned man was going out of his way to avoid Simmons.

The cyborg had wracked his brain trying to figure out if he had done something to piss Grif off but, beyond their usual banter and debates together, he couldn’t think of a damn thing.  Besides, Simmons knew that they both secretly enjoyed their talks.

So, naturally, Grif’s attitude today royally pissed him the fuck off.  In fact, he had confronted Grif about it in their room right before dinner and Grif had just blurted _it_ out.  That damn sentence that was currently haunting the cyborg.

_“I love you.”_

That was where they were now.  Simmons was currently still trying to process things and failing oh-so-spectacularly.  Naturally though, given his penchant for doubting himself and knowing that Grif was an asshole when it came to pranks, Simmons’ brain only came up with one viable option for what he had heard.

“…Are you making fun of me?” Simmons questioned seriously, hurt and anger causing his voice to tremble for the first time since hearing the supposed confession.

“What?” Grif frowned and stared at Simmons in disbelief, clearly not expecting that particular reaction.

He’d probably wanted Simmons to turn red and get all flustered seeing as how the lazy asshole always got a rise out of that, but Simmons was not about to let him get that satisfaction this time.  The redhead tried willing the tears to not pinprick his eyes just then.  Fuck it, he wasn’t going to cry!

“This is…this is beyond messed up, even for a prank.” Simmons stated hastily, heading towards the door, “F—fuck you, asshole.”

Grif moved with surprising speed, although Simmons _knew_ that Grif was fast when he wanted to be.  Anyone who saw the orange-wearing soldier in the cafeteria could attest to that.  The redhead sighed in frustration as Grif blocked Simmons’ hand from reaching the door’s control panel with his own.

Simmons spun around, flustered at the sudden proximity.  He was now effectively trapped with his back to the locked door and Grif in his personal space.

Grif was staring at him with a serious, scrutinizing look on his face, “This isn’t a joke, Simmons.” He finally said with a surprisingly emphatic tone to his usually carefree and apathetic voice.

Simmons wanted to derisively bark out a laugh.  Of _course_ it was a joke.  It was a joke that was shitty and going too far now.  Who the fuck could possibly love someone like him?

Simmons was caught off-guard when Grif suddenly leaned in before he could laugh at the orange-armored soldier’s comment.

A chubby arm became snaked around his waist, pulling Simmons’ body flush with Grif’s own as plump lips collided with Simmons’ chapped ones.

The kiss was…magnetic, to say the least.  Overwhelming and surprisingly passionate despite the fact that Simmons clearly sucked at it.

Simmons felt his legs going weak, heat pooling in his stomach.  As Grif’s tongue demanded entrance, he hesitatingly complied.  Then it was as if a switch turned on, and he was returning the gesture hungrily, even eagerly.

By the time they separated for air, Grif was watching the dreamy look plastered on Simmons’ still somewhat disbelieving face with a surprisingly worried one of his own, “Still don’t believe me?” he finally asked.

Simmons couldn’t speak, but he was all too aware of Grif’s arm still wrapped around his waist.  It was holding him in a close, secure embrace.

Grif took in a deep breath once more, “I love you, kiss-ass.” He repeated again to the stunned cyborg.

Simmons remembered the sensations from that kiss just then.  The redhead thought back to late-night conversations and debates that always made his heart pound and put a smile on his face.  His mind also thought of drunken confessions.  It thought of declarations that had always made him hopeful, that had always made him disappointed when they seemed to be forgotten.

Simmons smiled shakily and leaned into Grif’s touch.  It was his turn now to catch the tan-skinned man off-guard as he rested his head on his shoulder, hoping that the blush that was covering his whole body now was hidden from view by his red hair.

Grif’s embrace tightened reassuringly and Simmons returned it.  The constant, solid weight of Grif surrounding him like an unspoken promise.

“I love you too, fat-ass.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely sure where the idea for this story came from, but it wouldn’t get out of my head so I had to write it down. I apologize if it isn’t great.


	15. Hindsight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Grif gets more than he bargained for when he agrees to help give Jensen driving lessons._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~Palomo x Jensen  
> ~Docnut
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~Set on Chorus either during Seasons 12 and 13 or directly after.
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

…In hindsight, Dexter Grif probably should have figured things would turn out this way right from the start.

After all, there was a reason that the Reds and Blues, not to mention practically the entirety of Chorus, had _all_ agreed on a united front that there was no way in hell any of them would ever allow Lieutenant Katie Jensen behind the wheel of a vehicle.  Solidarity and all that bullshit.

Chorus might be a war zone, but they would probably eventually recover from that.  Jensen’s driving?  Not so much.  There were just too many things that could go wrong, too many fires that would need to be put out.  Besides, the subsequent paperwork that Vanessa Kimball insisted they do after an inevitable Jensen crash was always a fucking drag.

Which stands to question _why_ the fuck Dexter Grif was currently in this predicament when all of Chorus was practically screaming _“We told you so, asshole!”_ and laughing mockingly.

“I…I’m really sorry, sir!” Jensen’s apologetic tone matched the tanned, freckled girl’s nervously wringing hands perfectly.

The two soldiers were standing in front of the smoking wreckage of a Warthog that had somehow, on what was supposed to be a routine practice drive, found itself folded into a wall.

Grif let out a customary apathetic sigh at the rookie’s apology, “Not your fault, really.”

…No, it was definitely more _his_ for agreeing to these lessons in the first place.

Jensen frowned, glancing over at the smoking debris, “B—but…!”

Man, what a fucking pain.

“Let’s just see what we can salvage, all right?” Grif said, not in the mood for blame placing or confidence issues.

He put up enough with that bullshit at home, he didn’t need to deal with it here.  Besides, he guessed it _was_ technically his fault as acting captain or whatever.  Washington and Simmons would certainly say so, if nothing else.  Neurotic workaholics often thought along the same lines.

What should he have done though?  Well, for starters, when Jensen had first approached Grif tentatively on the subject of driving lessons, he should have said no.  After all, all of the captains and Washington had collectively agreed that it was just too dangerous to let the maroon-trimmed lieutenant anywhere near vehicles after that _last_ pile-up.

But, when Jensen had asked, he couldn’t help but remember life before the draft when he had taught Kai how to drive.  Something inside him had decided that the Don’t-Let-Jensen-Near-a-Vehicle Rule was something he needed to be a maverick on.  If he could fucking teach Kai how to drive in the past, he sure as hell could teach Jensen, right?

Evidently, that wasn’t the case.

The orange-armored soldier watched as Jensen pulled apart gears and equipment from the wreckage with an efficient speed that would make her nerdy-as-fuck captain proud.

For a moment, Grif wondered if he couldn’t just stand back and dictate what needed to be done.  Or not, because he could just go and take a nap instead.  Right before he was about to sit down, the chubby soldier saw Jensen’s hands shaking.  Moments later, he heard the sniffling of barely held back tears.

Damn it.  There went his napping plans.

“I…I just don’t understand it…” Jensen mumbled under her breath, probably not for him to hear.

Grif sighed again as he bent over to help pull some gear from the totaled machine too, “Next time we’ll empty the Puma beforehand.” He told her.

The girl looked over at him, and he could hear the smile in her voice when she spoke, “Y—yes, sir!”

Jensen promptly saluted him just as Simmons had, no doubt, taught her to do.  Leave it to a kiss-ass to impart respect for authority on his team.  Grif couldn’t help but smile fondly back.

…In hindsight, he hadn’t really learned his lesson after all.

“Katie!  Captain Grif, sir!” Charles Palomo called out, racing over to the two with a tool kit in hand.  For some reason, he was holding a wrench out.  No doubt Palomo had no clue what to do with it.

Grif raised a dark-colored eyebrow at Palomo’s overly familiar usage of Jensen’s first name.  He lazily wondered if Simmons would be going into hardcore “overprotective parent” mode on the dark-skinned lieutenant’s ass later.

“Thanks, Palomo.” Jensen began standing upright to take the tool box from the rookie gratefully, “But I think this is way past repairs.”

“No biggie!” Given the cheery response, Palomo’s grin was apparent even with his helmet on, “We always need more scrap anyways.”

“You think so?” Jensen sounded doubtful, eyes wandering to the still smoldering crash site.

Palomo nodded before giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, “You were doing great up until the wall got in the way!”

The two lieutenants stood there for a moment, regarding one another quietly.  Grif definitely had the feeling that he was intruding on something private just then.  The tan-skinned soldier waited a few moments before coughing awkwardly to remind the two of the burning wreckage.

“Oh, right!” Palomo swung around at the sound of Grif’s throat clearing, his arm with the wrench going with him as the tool flew out of his grip, “Shit!”

Grif felt the impact of the wrench on the side of his face a second later.  Damn it.

…In hindsight, he should have worn a fucking helmet.

*****

“It’s not so bad, Grif.” Franklin Delano Donut tried reassuringly as they currently sat in his and Frank “Doc” DuFresne’s shared room.

Grif found himself here after Palomo and Jensen had both volunteered to see to the Warthog wreckage following his getting smacked in the head with a wrench, though Grif suspected the two lieutenants wanted to enjoy the private time his being accidentally injured awarded the two of them.

…He was already gleefully imagining the training he hoped Washington would give them in the future out of spite.

“He’s right.” Doc supplied helpfully, “A little orange juice and you’ll be right as rain!”

Grif glanced up from the ice pack covering the shiner on his left eye to fix the purple medic with a glare, opting not to say anything.  He could only deal with so much stupid in one conversation.

“Gee.  I don’t know, Doc.” Donut tapped his chin thoughtfully, “Wouldn’t that just sting?”

“You still just drink it, Franklin.  You don’t stick it on the injury.” Doc told the pink-armored soldier in that fond voice he only used for Donut.  The one that Grif, Tucker, and Simmons would secretly gag at.

“Oh, that makes more sense!” Donut replied, laughing “I love holistic medicine!”

It didn’t make more sense.  At all.

Grif sighed, already feeling like this was a horrible mistake.  Which, obviously it was.  He went voluntarily to see Doc and Donut.  That lapse of judgement instantly meant it was a mistake.

“It’s very nice of you to try and teach Jensen to drive despite her _difficulties_ , Grif.” Doc informed the chubby soldier gently.

“We’ll keep it our secret, don’t you worry!” Donut reassured Grif before sharing a conspiratorial nod and wink with Doc, “Even if we get caught from behind!”

“Thanks.” Grif couldn’t help but reply dryly, “Though I think the secret’s out of the bag thanks to this.”

He motioned to his black eye with his ice pack.  There was no way no one would _not_ notice the bruise, though he supposed it would be easy enough to make up some lie if he had the energy for it.   Damn it.  He was too lazy for this secretive shit.

Doc and Donut smiled at each other again, and Grif couldn’t help but be afraid.

“Leave it to us, Grif!” Donut told him emphatically, “No one will even pay attention to your eye with the right accessories!”

…In hindsight, Grif probably should have taken his chances with Doctor Grey.

*****

After what felt like hours, Grif headed back to the room that he shared with Simmons while trying to appear as nonchalantly apathetic as always.  All while wearing a garish amount of necklaces and a tie-dye neon orange shirt to complete the “ _look_.”

What “ _look_ ” exactly that Donut had been going for, Grif couldn’t say, but the younger Red Team member had been convinced that the dark-haired man dressing in such a way would be enough to turn people’s attention away from his eye.  Grif had felt too tired to really argue with Donut even though the plan was needlessly stupid.

“Who gave you that black eye?!”

The door hadn’t even fully closed behind him when Richard “Dick” Simmons had made his exclamation and jumped up from their shared bed ( _sharing one saved space for Simmons’ nerd projects and Grif’s impromptu snacking, all right?  No need to make it weird_ ).   The redhead stood before the chubby man, his flesh hand automatically hovering over the other’s injury.

Grif sighed lazily.  So much for Donut’s “ _ingenious_ ” plan.  What an unnecessary pain in the ass.

“I um…got into a fight over the last snack cake back at the mess hall.” Grif said, deciding to go with a truly maverick story as he smirked, “You should see the other guy.”

“Huh,” Simmons replied, raising a red eyebrow, “And here I thought Palomo beamed you in the face with a wrench after Jensen crashed the Warthog during your driving lesson.”

The maroon-armored soldier smirked at the dumbfounded look currently spreading over Grif’s features.  “Who told?” Grif finally got out, realizing there was no point in wasting energy by denying the truth.

“Jensen.” Simmons informed him, “She just wanted to make sure that you were okay.”

Grif expected Simmons to go into a high-pitched rant about safety protocols and how they had all agreed to never let Jensen behind the wheel of _anything_ ever again, but the cyborg surprised him.

“Next time, can I come along too?” Simmons finally asked with a slight blush on his cheeks, “Jensen _is_ my subordinate, so…”

Grif grinned lazily, “And here I thought you just wanted to see me in action.”

The nerd’s blush intensified at the exposure of his true motive, “We—well, that _is_ something of a miracle in and of itself…!”

Grif couldn’t help the fond smile that spread across his face then, “Kiss-ass.”

“Fat-ass.” Simmons smiled back.

…In hindsight, Grif probably shouldn’t have worried so much.

They stayed like that for a few minutes longer, Simmons’ fingers and eyes still lingering upon the shiner on Grif’s tan face.

Grif smirked again, finally breaking the comfortable silence between them: “Aren’t you going to kiss it and make it better?”

Simmons’ face went a color so red that Sarge would have been proud, “Jackass.” He muttered under his breath.

But, after glancing around tentatively despite the two of them being the only people in the room, Simmons leaned forward and placed his lips gently on the darkened skin just under Grif’s eye.

“…B—better?” he asked hesitatingly, face still beet red.

“Better.” Grif replied lazily as his smirk widened.

“Good.” Simmons pulled away rather reluctantly, his eyes then sweeping downward over the rest of Grif’s body, “Maybe now you can tell me just what the fuck it is you’re wearing.”

…In hindsight, Grif probably should have immediately left the room when Donut had started talking about _“accessorizing_. _”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A gift for my sister using the prompt _“Who gave you that black eye?!”_. This was a rather fun one to write, and I hope that you enjoyed it! :)


	16. Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Simmons reflects._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
>  **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~ **MASSIVE SPOILERS** for Season 15, Episode 6. **SPOILERS, I SAY!**  
>  ~Written for the 15kisses comm on Dreamwidth. The prompt was “Sagittarius: #2 Storm.” 
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

“Looks like a clear sky for miles and miles!” Donut’s cheery voice intoned from where he was sitting with Lopez in the airship’s cockpit, “Not a storm cloud in sight!”

Richard “Dick” Simmons couldn’t help but snort derisively to himself at the pink-armored soldier’s comment.  Oh, Donut was naively mistaken.  There was _definitely_ a storm brewing.  One that Simmons was caught fucking smack dab in the middle of.

_“I quit.”_

Words he kept replaying over and over again spoken in Dexter Grif’s voice.  The voice that was so familiar and so _constant_ over the years.  Simmons’ hands, both organic and cybernetic, shook violently at the tone that voice held in his memory. 

The words, their tone, plunged into him like a lightning bolt.

The maroon-wearing solider glanced around the airship.  He knew that the others were probably just as upset over what had happened, that they were just better at covering up their emotions.  How could they not be feeling the loss?  Grif was one of them: a Red and Blue.  He was family.

Simmons didn’t need cybernetics to recognize that Donut’s usually cheerful voice definitely had a warble in it that belied tears.  He didn’t need his glasses to see that Lopez had thrown himself in the pilot’s seat without so much as a word, not that anyone would understand the Spanish-speaking robot if he did say a damn thing.

The redhead didn’t need to glance nearby to glimpse Sarge muttering about “ _deserters_ ” while practically hugging his beloved shotgun.  He didn’t even need Sarge’s approval to notice the two journalists poking their investigative noses around the airship, as if trying to see who in their group would break rank next.

Simmons swallowed hard at the sight of the two newcomers.  He wanted to fucking hate them even as he tried to tell himself that what had happened with Grif wasn’t really their fault.

He glanced over towards the vacant space by his side and realized he was failing miserably at that too.  He couldn’t help but resent them a little for this, as irrational as that probably was.

Speaking of irrational, when he looked over towards Caboose he noticed that the Blue was strangely quiet.  He refused to even look Simmons’ way. They all were, in fact.  It felt like they were avoiding him.  Afraid of getting caught up in the storm that they had no doubt was currently raging inside of him.

Ever since the journey to find this current iteration of Church or whatever-the-fuck-it-turned-out-to-be had begun, Simmons had been alone.  Had felt alone.  Like a part of him was missing.

_“…I hate you all.”_

Simmons hadn’t looked away then, when he had heard Grif’s words.  He _couldn’t_.  He’d stood there, frozen.  Unable to say a damn thing or take one fucking step forward.  Even as the others left to get ready, he’d just _stood_ there.  Staring at Grif, trying to process what he’d heard…

Until he’d had to make a choice too.  He still wasn’t sure it was the right one.  He wasn’t sure of a lot of things anymore.  Fuck Dexter Grif for making him have to make the choice in the first place.  The jackass never really gave him an option.

Simmons had thought, no matter how flushed or embarrassed he got at remembering their bodies entwined on Chorus, that they’d been closer than ever before.  Grif had never really said the words, and Simmons sure as hell had never said them…but, he thought that they were always there.  Underneath it all, even though they pretended the “ _l_ ” word had never been involved.

To Simmons, it didn’t have to be spoken.  It was just meant to be understood.  Leave it to the lazy orange-armored soldier to not get the memo.

_“I quit.  I hate you all.”_

Those damn words.  Simmons had wanted to scream at Grif to take it back, to take it all back.

A part of him wanted to be there with Grif still.  The other part wanted to punch Grif and call him “ _fat-ass_ ” again just for the hell of it.  Truthfully?  He wanted so much to do _both_.  He just wanted Grif to be fucking _there_ , wherever the hell Simmons was.

Yeah, Donut had definitely been wrong about the weather.  There _was_ a storm raging on, and Simmons was smack dab in the fucking middle of it.  But, this time?  There were no mirrors to punch, no room he could hide in.  There was no one he could ask if they ever wondered why they were here.

So, Simmons sat with hands clenched tight at his sides, helmet off so he could fucking _breathe_.  He remained frozen, just like he had when a certain orange-armored fat-ass decided to walk away.

“Hey, man,” Tucker had approached him, shifting on his feet awkwardly, “Look, are you going to be okay or…?”

Simmons didn’t reply with words.  He simply turned his head slightly to stare through Tucker, and the teal-armored soldier paused before speaking again, “Yeah, okay, I’ll just…check on you later.”

The dark-skinned man then quickly left without commenting on Simmons’ face, or the wetness he no doubt saw there.  If Tucker had, Simmons would have blamed the storm.  He would have fucking blamed Dexter Grif.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a lot more angst-y than I tend to write (and I apologize for not being the best at writing it!), but that last episode with how they handled Simmons’ reaction to what Grif said and did? Well, it just hit me way too hard in the FEELS to not write a response fic to it. So, here it is…and now I just want to hug poor Simmons a ton!
> 
> This was also my first prompt fill for Dreamwidth’s 15kisses comm. And it’s my first ever episode response fic too, along with my first straight-up angst fic as well—oh boy, lots of firsts in this story! I didn’t mean to go angst for it, but I just couldn’t help it after watching Season 15’s Episode 6! Hopefully, the next prompt will be fluffier to counterbalance this one. O_O;


	17. Sight Unseen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Simmons is captured._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~Set after Season 12, but probably before Season 13.  
> ~Written for the 15kinks comm on Dreamwidth. The prompt was “Libra: #4 Sensory Deprivation.” 
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

Richard “Dick” Simmons had lost count of the hours following his capture by the pirates on Chorus.  His squad had been on a routine mission when they had been ambushed.

He recalled giving the order to retreat, remembered that Jensen had been the last one out.  He had been just a few meters behind her when an explosion had knocked him out.  When Simmons had regained consciousness, it was to nothing but a heavy, thick blackness.

Because, _of course_ , stripping him out of his maroon armor and leaving him in his black, skintight under suit while tied down to a chair wasn’t enough for the assholes.  They just _had_ to blindfold him too.

While someone like Tucker might have been into this type of scenario, and the cyborg was pretty sure Grif had videos that started with similar scenes but with very specific music in the background, Simmons definitely wasn’t enjoying any of this.  These pirates were Grade-A douchebags.  He wouldn’t be surprised if some of them were the bullies he went to school with.

Simmons wasn’t sure which was worse.  His own self-conscious _humiliation_ over being practically naked (he wasn’t really, but given how little the damn under suit left to the imagination, he might as well be) and helpless in front of genocidal maniacs?  Or the fact that he couldn’t see whatever it was the assholes were doing?

The only conclusion the redhead could definitively come to was that his luck sucked major ass.

The jerks gagged him too, so apparently it wasn’t information they were after.  At least not yet.  Or maybe they had just decided his oh-so-manly wail of _“Ow, the back of my head!”_ right before he blacked out didn’t need to be repeated.

All Simmons really knew about his surroundings was that he was in a room of some kind, because he heard the door open and close whenever one of the assholes entered or left.  If they had been there, he imagined Sarge would have praised him for his deductive reasoning, while Grif would have just rolled his eyes and said “ _Uh, no fucking shit._ ”

A lot of the conversations that he overheard from the pirates centered on eerily mundane things, like the weather or a sports game.  It unnerved him how casual they were.  Did they not freaking see that he was there, uncomfortable and having a freaking panic attack?

Of course, he preferred being ignored to being noticed.  Sometimes, the conversation would turn to _him_ , and that was when his already high-as-fuck anxiety levels really started to go into overdrive.  The assholes discussed torturing him, or putting a bullet through his brain with the same casualness as they did the weather. It did not instill confidence regarding his safety.

When they first started to talk about him, he’d struggle.  That seemed to amuse the jerks to no end, so he tried not responding at all after a little bit.  It sometimes worked for the bullies back when he was a kid, although sometimes they’d embrace their inner douchebags even more.

Evidently, some of the pirates were no better than his schoolyard bullies had been.  His non-response seemed to actually piss off one of the pirates even more.  Said asshole decided it would be _hilarious_ to add headphones onto Simmons’ plight.

The cyborg _tried_ struggling a bit by thrashing his head around when the heavy fabric tightened over his ears.  But, the offending items remained firmly in place and, in his terror at the sudden _muted_ sound around him, Simmons went stock-still.

His stomach twisted into knots as the mechanical components that now made up his heart thundered loudly in his ears.  He couldn’t breathe…

Then the _assholes_ started touching and prodding him with unseen objects.  A painful poke with a metal bar on his arm, a barrel of a gun at his temple.  When he thought that he was finally being left alone, he’d feel things like hands grip his hair.  Such occurrences happened at random intervals, with seemingly no rhyme or reason.

They were just fucking toying with him.  Damn fucking asshole pirates.  Simmons willed himself not to cry, if only because he imagined his squad and the rest of Red Team being disappointed in him if he did.  Grif would have never let him live it down.  So, he tried his hardest to remain as unresponsive as he could.

Mercifully, or unmercifully depending on how one were to look at it, his captors evidently got bored with playing with him.  Thankfully, these pirates really were just like his schoolyard bullies.  They also had the attention spans of gnats, and probably the same I.Q. too.

So the assholes left him, or at least retreated further from his personal space in the room.  Simmons was by himself, left in darkness and silence for who-the-hell-knew-how-long.

At least it wasn’t one of his squad here in his stead, or a friend.  Simmons at least had had a lifetime of bullying, teasing, and living with anxiety that somewhat prepared him for this situation.  Not that it was probably a good thing he was mentally more equipped for such an occurrence than another might be.  Lots of broken bathroom mirrors could attest to that.

Simmons had almost, _almost_ managed to calm his nerves down when, through the earmuffs on his head, he swore he heard the faint sounds of…  Was that _fighting_?

The muted echo of gunfire sounded like it was coming from far away though, for all he knew, it could be coming from right next door.  Suddenly there was a rush of wind coming his way, like the door to the room had just burst open.

The redhead stiffened at the rush of air on his face.  He couldn’t help struggling at the unexpected development, even if it might cost him later.  He tried once more to pry his arms out of the restraints in earnest, panic increasing at someone else being in the room with him.

Suddenly, Simmons felt two strong, armored arms wrap uncomfortably around him.  They practically lifted his whole body, chair and all, off the floor.  He should have fucking freaked out, but instead of panicking even more, Simmons felt oddly at ease and safe in that awkward, crushing, uncomfortable-as-all-fuck embrace.

There was a sense of warmth, of familiarity in it that he couldn’t quite place.  An odd scent suddenly surrounded him that had him thinking it would all be okay.  A mix of pungent body odor, sweat, cigarettes, and Oreos.  It was disgusting and he kind of wanted to gag, but he felt like he was safe too.

Muffled voices were talking all around him.  Seconds later, rather reluctantly compared to the intense suddenness of before, the chair was back on the ground.

When the blindfold and earmuffs were removed, he blurrily saw the rest of Red Team standing protectively around him.

Simmons didn’t hold back his tears following that sight, but it was okay because Donut was already crying “ _tears of joy_ ” while Sarge and Lopez shook their heads and Grif complained that the rescue mission interrupted his midday nap.

Dexter Grif’s breath reeked of cigarettes and Oreos when he spoke.

*****

“You ready to go, kiss-ass, or what?”  Grif’s lazy voice drawled from where he was observing Simmons in the clinic’s doorway.

Doctor Grey had insisted on giving the cyborg a full check-over once he had returned to the base, and she had just given him the all-clear to leave.

As Simmons got up from the clinic’s bed, he held the “ _Get Well Soon_ ” card that Jensen, Volleyball, and the rest of his squad had given him.  It was lovely and totally didn’t make him cry unmanly tears ( _damn it!_ ).

As for the other Reds and Blues, they had already checked up on him and were currently in a debriefing with Kimball and Doyle.

Evidently, Grif had skipped said briefing because it was “ _too much of a hassle_ ” and had decided to check in on his teammate because he had “ _nothing better to do_.”  In other words, the orange-armored soldier was looking for an excuse to shirk his duties.  What else was fucking new?

Simmons rolled his eyes, “I’m coming, fat-ass.”

Grif waited for the cyborg to step out into the hallway before following suit, “Are you ready to be moving around now?  If I was you, I’d need a week or two of recovery time, tops.”

“Of course you would.” Simmons sighed, not at all surprised at Grif’s ability to create a lazy lifestyle.

Honestly?  The thought of not moving for a while was rather unsettling to him at the moment, especially given the past couple of days.

“Hey, I’m just saying,” Grif took a cigarette out of the compartment of his armor where he had oh-so-secretly hidden them and lit one up, “You went through a lot.  No one would blame you for taking it easy.”

Simmons stared at him, both shocked and aghast all at once.  Was Grif actually trying to express concern for someone other than himself?  Those moments were so rare for the apathetic soldier, it almost felt like Simmons was hallucinating.

“What?  I had a traumatic time of it too.”

…Of course Grif would ruin the moment by making it all about himself.  The glow of the cigarette in the darkened hallway stood out almost as much as the light from Simmons’ red cybernetic eye.

Normally, this would be the time when Simmons would yell at Grif to not mess up _his_ lungs.

But, there was something about the lingering cigarette smoke in the air that reminded him of protective arms encircling him in the dark.

“G—Grif?” The redhead asked tentatively, a smile _and_ blush creeping onto his face.

“Yeah?” Grif eyed Simmons skeptically, as if expecting a lecture.

“…Thanks.”

For a moment, Grif seemed surprised and caught off-guard.  Then, a knowing look crossed over his dark eyes and he couldn’t help smirking.

“I missed you, nerd.” Grif mumbled under breath that held the stink of cigarette smoke and Oreos.

“I missed you too, fat-ass.” Simmons replied under his own breath.

He wasn’t sure if Grif even heard him, but that was how it always was with them.

They both sucked at words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first prompt fill for Dreamwidth’s 15kinks comm. I just wanted to get something a bit less angst-y out than my previous story was while still experimenting a bit, and this was the result! I admit, it was a little strange writing a story set earlier in the show after the whammy that was Season 15’s Episode 6, but I found it sort of therapeutic in a way too. This one shot was a bit of seriousness blended with some fluff right at the end, so I hope it was an okay read for everyone. :)


	18. Treading Carefully

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They had always treaded carefully…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~ **MASSIVE SPOILERS** for Season 15 through Episode 7. **SPOILERS, I SAY!**  
>  ~Written for the 15kisses comm on Dreamwidth. The prompt was “Sagittarius: #10 Tread.” 
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

_Whenever Richard “Dick” Simmons was in pain following the surgery’s aftermath, he would rub his cybernetic arm._

__

__

_He’d catch Dexter Grif watching him as he did so, and their stares would linger on one another for a moment before they would both go their separate ways._

_Simply having Grif around still to do that was worth it. They didn’t need to address it with words._

__

__

They had always treaded carefully, the two of them. They had treaded so very carefully when it came to their feelings.

_“Hey, man, let’s not make a big deal of it. Okay?” Grif had told the redhead shortly after they’d held one another for hours in the shade._

_Simmons could only nod his head, Grif’s touch still lingering on his face, “Oh, yeah. Definitely.”_

It was an unspoken rule between them. They’d just ignore whatever… _this_ …was growing steadfastly between them. They had to fucking maintain the status quo.

_Simmons was still fuming inwardly over how his confession before the firing squad had been interrupted by the very asshole now standing next to him._

_“Whatever you were going to say back there?” Grif asked, having pulled the maroon-armored soldier away from Sarge for a moment, “Just forget it, okay?”_

_“What? Why?” Simmons wasn’t sure where this conversation was going, and if he was being honest he was sort of annoyed they were having it at all. What about the unspoken rule? They were still alive, so didn’t it still count?_

_Grif made a face of apathetic disgust, “Not the right time, dude.”_

_Simmons frowned and nodded. Grif was right, of course. But, he couldn’t help but wonder when the_ right _time would be. He suddenly hated that stupid fucking rule of theirs._

Simmons could live with it, really. So long as the two of them were always together. They could tread carefully together.

_“It’s no big deal.” Grif was trying to act like he wasn’t shaking as he brought the cigarette to his lips, “No fucking need to make it one.”_

_For once, Simmons wasn’t screaming about the fat-ass ruining_ his _lungs. Instead, the cyborg stared at Grif incredulously. “No big deal? You almost_ died _, Grif!” He stated in a high-pitched, disbelieving voice._

_The feel of the orange-armored hand slipping through his own, the sound of Grif calling out his name… Simmons shuddered just remembering how powerless and hopeless he’d felt just then._

_“Yeah, but I didn’t. So let’s move on, all right?” Grif said in an exhale, smoke filling the air._

_Simmons was too afraid to rock the boat and say anything else on the subject, so he didn’t. They had to tread carefully._

It had gone on like that for years, and Simmons had convinced himself that it was okay. Grif seemed content too, and their back-and-forth bickering was a comforting stability in an otherwise chaotic life.

They were Grif and Simmons. No matter what, the other would be close by.

_Hargrove’s ship was looming overhead, and while everyone else was staring at it, Grif was cursing up a storm and pacing. Simmons glanced over at him, unsure of what to say or do. He knew that Grif had had enough. They all had, but…_

_Grif turned then, caught the corner of Simmons’ eye through the helmet. Silently, he moved back to stand next to the cyborg._

_Their shoulders were almost touching, but they didn’t say anything. They treaded carefully around each other._

Of course, some things were a bit harder to ignore than others…

_Sweat and musk lingered on Simmons’ body just as Grif’s touch did. The closet in the Temple of Procreation smelled of the aftermath of what they’d done…multiple times,_ together _._

_Neither Grif nor Simmons could look at each other now in the darkness despite how frantically, feverishly they had been kissing and grabbing purchase of the other before._

_“So…” Simmons tried saying conversationally, figuring he would just beat Grif to the punch, “…We just don’t talk about it?”_

_There was silence for a few tense moments. Simmons wanted to scream the exact opposite out loud instead, and when the redhead opened his mouth to do just that Grif surprised him by pulling his naked body against his own in a tight embrace._

_It lasted for only a second._

_When Caboose finally got the door open, it was business as usual between them, though the glances seemed to linger more when they thought the other wasn’t looking._

But then, suddenly, Grif didn’t seem to care about treading carefully anymore.

_“I quit.”_

_Simmons was screaming on the inside. He wanted to shout at Grif to take it all back. But, he couldn’t move. Simmons couldn’t even react. What the fuck happened to treading carefully? Why was he the only one sticking to the fucking rule?_

_“I hate all of you.”_

The transport was flying smoothly now.

Simmons just wanted to forget awkward-as-all-fuck conversations with Caboose bringing up way too painful memories. Or snakes. Or lawyers. Or a certain fat-ass who would no doubt be sarcastically remarking about all of those things in an aside to him…

Simmons glanced over to his side to remind himself that wasn’t going to be the case this time, and sighed at the vacant air that was devoid of lazy asshole.

“Are you thinking about Grif again?” Caboose asked him quietly from behind.

Maybe it was the possible concussion he had gotten from the faint earlier still impacting his judgement, but Simmons nodded.

“Want a hug?”

Simmons couldn’t help but smile at Caboose’s attempt to help even as he shook his head. No, a hug wouldn’t help him right now.

What he needed was to see a certain orange-armored fat-ass when all of this was said and done. They needed to have a long, overdue talk.

Simmons was fucking through with treading carefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Season 15 response fic because I will never stop until Grif and Simmons have the chance to finally hash things out! XD I apologize if this one was weird to read due to its narrative flow. I was actually experimenting a bit with the writing style.


	19. That's Hot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Simmons would probably never call Dexter Grif “shallow.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~Robonut
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~Based on the Season 14 episode where Grif and Simmons looked at porn together.  
> ~Written for the 15kisses comm on Dreamwidth. The prompt was “Sagittarius: #14 Shallow.”  
> ~Also written for Amaya_Ithilwen’s prompt “Out of the blue.” :D 
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

Richard “Dick” Simmons would probably never call Dexter Grif _“shallow.”_ After all, the chubby man was definitely not shallow when it came to his own looks. It was hard to describe someone who couldn’t be bothered half the time to shave properly or even bathe with _that_ particular adjective.

All things considered, Simmons could _maybe_ be categorized more on the superficial side himself. Oh, sure, the maroon-armored solider didn’t pride himself on his looks or anything like that. There was a lot about his lanky, too pale cybernetic body that he _didn’t_ care for.

Still, Simmons was meticulous when it came to hygiene, his red hair was regulation length, and his outfits were always crisp and perfectly ironed. His parents had always been insistent on keeping up appearances, even as inwardly their _“perfect”_ family splintered apart.

No, Simmons would note whenever he saw Grif absentmindedly smudge some sort of greasy food stain on to his mussed-up outfit, being _”shallow”_ or _“superficial”_ in regards to his own physical appearance did not seem to apply to his orange-armored teammate.

However, sometimes the cyborg did notice how Grif would seem to look at someone he thought was attractive. How Grif’s gaze would slightly linger over their form, his eyes darkening ever so slightly.

It had first happened when they had been looking at Grif’s stash of porn together, awkward as that moment had been for poor Simmons. But, Grif had _offered_ and fuck it! Like there was anything else to do in that damn canyon? Grif hadn’t seemed to mind looking at the porn with him, so maybe it was only Simmons who had made it weird.

Simmons, blushing, couldn’t help but jump slightly when Grif muttered in a voice that reminded him far too much of the chubby man’s little sister, _“That’s hot.”_

All the redhead could reply back with, eyes transfixed on the serious and altogether-different-sort-of-hungry look that had suffused the heavyset man’s features, was a shaky nod and a squeaked out, _“Y—yeah. Definitely!”_

Weirdly enough? At that exact moment, Simmons’ brain had oh-so-helpfully tried recalling when the last time was that someone had ever regarded him in Grif’s current looking-at-porn manner. Unsurprisingly, the number was zero.

N—not that Simmons was complaining or anything! He knew he wasn’t exactly much to look at. Besides, it wasn’t like he had wanted Grif to specifically look at him like he was the most delectable Oreo out there either. No, that was so far off the mark that he couldn’t even _begin_ to explain what was wrong with that thought.

But still, every time since then, whenever he saw a flicker of that look cross over Grif’s face, Simmons felt his stomach muscles clench and his throat tighten. He tried his best to ignore it, especially since Grif would always clap his shoulder conspiratorially as he continued to share his porn.

…It wasn’t weird in the slightest, damn it! It wasn’t even weird when Simmons, more than he’d care to admit, started to realize that he just enjoyed spending that time with Grif.

The cyborg just didn’t like seeing that look on Grif’s face anymore, especially when it was directed at the women in the magazines. He even found himself inwardly muttering how much of a shallow fat-ass Grif was every time he saw that familiar look in the orange-armored soldier’s eyes. …That, that wasn’t weird at all!

So, Simmons tried his hardest not to focus on his insecure jealousy that was totally nonexistent. He also tried not to dwell on how he could never have that look from Grif directed his way. Whether he wanted it or not being beside the point, damn it! The cyborg just went about his days, and his tumultuous friendship with Grif, as always.

_It_ happened once, out of the blue, with a visit. Naturally, the visitor was one Kaikaina Grif. The day, like so many at Blood Gulch, started out normally enough.

Simmons had just exited the showers as he rather _liked_ taking one right after Donut because the pink-armored soldier actually tidied the place up, unlike a certain lazy fat-ass who shall remain nameless. Stepping into the bathroom proper, the redhead was a little annoyed to find that his shirt was missing. He frowned, noting that it hadn’t even _been_ that long since he’d entered the stall to begin with.

A rose-scented, hand-calligraphed note on pink stationary from Donut explained the rest: evidently, Lopez had gotten himself dirty and all of Red Base was fresh out of cleaning rags. …What the two had been doing to cause the robot to get dirty in the first place was something that Simmons had long since learned not to ask about or dwell on.

In the note, Donut _promised_ to have the shirt freshly laundered and apologized for any inconvenience. Inconveniences such as Simmons having to walk through the base back to his room half-naked, an idea that had the self-conscious cyborg squirming.

As he hurried along to do just that, Simmons overheard Sarge in his office muttering something along the lines of _“Of course, the dirtbag just has to fraternize with the enemy!”_ But, for once, the redhead paid his commanding officer no real heed since he desperately wanted to get back to his room.

Simmons almost would have gotten there incident-free, until…

_“Hey, gray nerd guy!”_ An all too familiar voice came from the open doorway of the kitchen.

Sure enough, Kaikaina Grif was sitting at the Red Team’s table. The yellow-armored soldier was shifting through the pages of one of Donut’s fashion magazines with a bored expression plastered on her tan features.

“My brother’s gone to the bathroom or some shit.” Kai stated matter-of-factly, raising a black eyebrow at Simmons’ lack of a shirt, “Is this some kind of new dress code for your team? Because Church always yells at me when I try to take _my_ top off.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Simmons nodded, desperately trying to change the topic before his brain short-circuited completely, “Wait, _what_?”

The tanned girl made a face, leaning back in her chair, “I know, can you believe it? You guys can walk around topless all you want, but when I do it is indecent or some shit! Sexist bullshit, is what I call it.”

“Um…” Simmons desperately needed a shirt and some coffee if this conversation was going to continue.

“Hey, Kai.” Grif’s voice came from behind them just then, and he turned around to see the heavyset man standing behind him, _“Simmons?”_

Simmons winced, afraid for a moment due to the unreadable expression crossing over Grif’s features that he was about to meet up with the extremely protective older sibling side of Dexter Grif. His entire upper body turned red, “D—Donut stole my shirt! Honest!” The maroon-wearing man exclaimed quickly.

Grif said nothing in response. The tan-skinned man’s hands clenched at his sides as his dark eyes narrowed, and Simmons gulped. The redhead prepared himself to get decked.

But, instead of reacting, Grif just stood there. _Staring._ It was as if he was combing over every inch of Simmons’ body, a sharp outtake of breath emerging from deep within the chubby man’s chest. It was Grif’s eyes that gave Simmons the most pause though. He’d _never_ seen Grif looking so intense before, outside of their looking at porn together moments.

Kaikaina watched the silent exchange with a smirk plastered on her face, “…That’s hot. Tucker’s going to hate that he missed this.”

The whole incident had only lasted for maybe a second before Simmons’ brain finally jolted back to life and he raced past Grif, the other man’s eyes still boring holes into his bare back.

When they had met up again after Grif had seen his little sister off, it was awkward at first for a fidgety Simmons. But, Grif played it off as though it were nothing, so the redhead soon relaxed. They were back to their usual dynamic in no time flat, and Grif didn’t even miss a beat in inviting Simmons to join him in flipping through his porn magazines again.

Simmons agreed even though he felt it would be awkward. Still, it seemed as if the incident from before had been no big deal to Grif, and Simmons didn’t want to be the one to shake the status quo. So, he sat there next to Grif in his own uncomfortable silence, red-faced and not really looking at anything at all on the well-worn pages.

_“That’s hot.”_ Grif suddenly said out of the blue but in his all too familiar _“shallow”_ voice.

Simmons couldn’t keep himself from looking up curiously then to see what Grif was talking about. Only, this time, Grif _wasn’t_ staring at the porn magazine. His eyes were glued on Simmons’ face, the look in them unmistakable. Simmons gulped, and found that he couldn’t look away.

They never talked about it, but their silent exchanges became more frequent after that. Whenever Simmons caught Grif staring, he couldn’t help but mirror the same look right back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick story idea that I came up with that worked well for two prompts I had been thinking about. I hope it was an enjoyable read! :D


	20. Treat Yo' Self

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Simmons is uncomfortable with the idea of being taken care of._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~Written for the 15kinks comm on Dreamwidth. The prompt was “Libra: #7 Pampering.” 
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

Contrary to what some might think, Richard “Dick” Simmons had not been a spoiled child growing up. How could he be when he had been constantly berated and looked down upon by his father in the very few instances when the man even bothered to make note of him at all?

Simmons’ mother had tried to be kinder to the child, at least early on. But, that had only gotten his parents into heated arguments over how she was _“coddling”_ the boy. Eventually, his mother gave up entirely while imparting to Simmons the advice that he should learn how to simply _“grin and bear it.”_

Simmons always sucked at listening to his mother’s advice, especially as his anxiety and nerves grew along with the mounting pressure of trying to be the _“perfect”_ son—a role he seemed destined to fail at, time and time again.

The lanky redhead left home as soon as he was able, though he was still caught under his father’s looming disappointment regarding his decision to join the military.

…No, those who thought he was spoiled were definitely wrong. Simmons had far from a _“pampered”_ life growing up.

If anything, Simmons was more likely to try and pamper someone else. It was obvious in the effort he put into always trying to please his father, exerted just so he could get some form of _acknowledgement_ from the distant man. It was just as obvious with the Red Team in how he went out of his way to try to get Sarge to notice him, when he agreed with the older man’s ideas even when he knew how ultimately crazy and bat-shit extreme they were.

Richard “Dick” Simmons was a kiss-ass. Always had been, always will be. He went out of his way to do things that would please authority figures. Of course, once he had joined the army, that desire to please and gain acceptance had only caused his reputation as a suck-up to skyrocket.

But, Simmons didn’t really mind that. Not really.

*****

“Doesn’t it get tiring?” Dexter Grif asked him once when they were on the roof of the Blood Gulch Red Team base together.

The lazy orange-armored soldier’s question had been asked after a particularly grueling day. It made sense that Grif had asked it since the heavyset man had spent hours watching both Simmons and Donut help enact another of Sarge’s _“brilliant”_ plans.

The plan had ultimately failed because Donut had mistaken sunscreen for suntan oil, though Simmons _still_ wasn’t entirely sure how delivering that to the bewildered Blues would have bought them enough time to steal their flag. The whole incident had caused Donut to lecture their commanding officer on the importance of proper skincare.

“Does _what_ get tiring?” Simmons asked as he tried to work a knot out of the shoulder where his metallic parts met flesh, a grimace on his face.

Grif chucked the cigarette he had been smoking after yet another tirade from Simmons about how the lazy man was ruining _his_ lungs. It landed on the floor as Grif ignored the distasteful look the redhead threw his way. He stared at Simmons’ flesh hand as it tried to reach the troubling spot on his shoulder as if transfixed by the other’s motions.

“Trying to please Sarge all the time.” Grif finally informed him with such an apathetic expression that Simmons couldn’t begin to gauge what was going through his mind.

“Doesn’t it get tiring going against the grain all the time?” Simmons countered, wincing as his fingertips just missed the spot that he desperately needed them to reach.

Grif’s own fingers twitched, and he looked away, “Not really. Then again, following his orders is a good way to get killed, so…”

“That—that’s insubordination, Grif!” Simmons couldn’t help but point out, biting his lip in frustration. He was so close to reaching that fucking spot…

Grif smirked, “So, report me.”

“Asshole.” Simmons responded because they both knew he wouldn’t.

“Besides,” Grif continued without missing a beat, “I know how to take care of myself.”

“You do.” Simmons stared at the chubby man blankly, clearly not impressed with the other’s statement given that how Grif lived his life wasn’t exactly what he would ever describe as someone _“taking care”_ of himself.

A dark-haired nod, “You should try it for yourself, Simmons.”

He couldn’t help but sigh, “Try what, fat-ass?” Simmons, frustrated by his shoulder, decided to continue the conversation as a diversionary tactic.

Grif’s eyes were back on his futilely reaching hand, an oddly unreadable look in them, “Pampering yourself.”

Simmons spluttered, his hand frozen in surprise, “Excuse me?”

“Or, you know, letting someone else do it for you.” There was an oddly hesitant, quiet tone to Grif’s voice just then as he pointedly looked away from the cyborg sitting next to him.

Simmons snorted in disbelief, “Yeah, right. I’ll get right on that after I start kissing _your_ ass.”

“Hey, you never know. I might be your commanding officer someday.”

“And we’ll be stuck somewhere with only Caboose nearby, right?” Simmons joked, rolling his eyes, “That would be torture on so many levels.”

“Fuck you, Simmons.” Grif responded with a smirk, “The part about me being in charge sounds awesome. I’d be such a fucking maverick.”

The conversation quickly fell into their usual comradely silence, Simmons mulling over Grif’s words of advice until it was time for them to head to bed.

He was afraid to ask Grif what he had truly meant.

*****

The first time they shared a room together was in Valhalla. It wasn’t long into their stay there before Simmons was awoken to the thrashing sounds of Grif caught in the throes of a nightmare. He cautiously tiptoed over to Grif’s bedside, wringing his hands nervously and very much unsure of what to do.

The maroon-armored soldier knew about panic attacks. After all, he had dealt with debilitating anxiety his entire life. But, it was different seeing it wreathed around the face of someone else. Something in his chest _ached_ at the fact that it was Grif who was going through his own mental turmoil.

Eventually, Simmons worked up the courage to tentatively reach out with his flesh hand to shake the other man gently awake. Grif’s eyes opened wide. For a moment, they were filled with unbridled fear. That was, until he zeroed in on Simmons’ face looming above him in the dark.

“Y—you okay?” Simmons couldn’t help asking, though even if Grif tried to vehemently deny it he already knew the answer.

Grif said nothing in reply, looking down instead at Simmons’ hand lingering on his shoulder.

“Sorry.” Simmons said, getting ready to remove the obviously offending appendage.

But, Grif’s hand shakily rested atop his hand before he could move it from the other’s shoulder. The larger tan hand covered Simmons’ and kept it resting in place. Simmons’ breath hitched in his throat and, for a split second, the world seemed to stop.

When Grif’s fingers started to relax and his grip loosened, Simmons tried pulling away once more, only for the other man’s grip to tighten again as he looked up at the redhead in wordless panic.

Simmons smiled reassuringly, “I’m just going to get you a glass of water, fat-ass.”

At length, Grif nodded and hesitatingly let Simmons go.

When Simmons returned to their room with the water a few minutes later, he was greeted by the sight of Grif sitting up in his bed. The blanket that had been twisted around the orange-wearing man just a few moments before was now draped haphazardly over his shoulders.

Simmons handed Grif the glass before sitting down next to him. The cyborg watched the other man empty the contents of the container in one lengthy gulp, averting his gaze when Grif glanced in his direction.

“You want to talk about it?” Simmons asked gently, unsure if he was breaking some unspoken code of theirs.

Grif shook his head as he set the glass down on the floor.

“Okay then.” Simmons managed to reply as he struggled with what else he should say, “Do you need me to, um…?” He trailed off helplessly, frustrated by his inability to offer more support to his friend.

But, to his surprise, Grif regarded him with an oddly fond smile on his face, “You _are_ good at this.” He murmured.

Simmons felt the heat rush to his face, “G—good at what?”

“Pampering, kiss-ass.”

With that, Grif closed his eyes and fell backwards onto his mattress seemingly without a care in the world.

Simmons didn’t mention the incident afterwards, unsure of whether or not Grif’s remark was meant to be a joke. However, he wordlessly helped Grif through his reoccurring nightmares from that point onwards.

*****

“Holy shit. You’re _bleeding_.”

“Who is?” Simmons asked as he blinked at Grif’s comment, his fuzz-addled brain trying to process the words that had just been spoken and just why it was that the heavyset man looked so upset.

That was, until he felt something wet drip down the side of his face. Simmons ran a hand across the liquid. Gazing down at his hand a few seconds later, he found the color red smeared against his fingertips.

“You are, idiot.” Grif replied as he made a face, “Gross, dude. Don’t fucking touch it.”

Simmons turned to stare at him disbelievingly, “Like you’re one to talk about being gross, Grif.”

“I’m not the one decorating the halls with red splotches.” Grif pointed out, a frown on his face as he regarded Simmons’ cut carefully, “What the hell happened?”

The injury was probably more minor than what Grif was making it out to be. Simmons didn’t really feel anything beyond a light sting, and he certainly wasn’t _“decorating the halls”_ like Grif was saying he was. That would be so unhygienic that the very mental image had him wanting to run for the cleaning equipment.

Simmons frowned in recollection, “Caboose wanted to show me a new trick that he had taught Freckles.”

“And you’re still alive?” Grif whistled appreciatively, “Those safety precautions that Doctor Grey and the other tech gurus here at Chorus set up are legit.”

Simmons nodded, “One of the pieces of shrapnel must have grazed me.”

“No shit.” Suddenly, Grif was reaching over and grabbing Simmons’ hand, “Come on.”

“W—where are we going?”

The redhead wanted to point out to the orange-armored man that he was now getting blood all over his own hand since Grif had grabbed onto the one that Simmons had just used to wipe his forehead with. But, something stopped him from doing so. Instead, his freckled face warmed up at the sudden contact. 

Maybe Simmons was more injured than he thought if he couldn’t even muster up the energy needed to nag at Dexter Grif like normal.

Not that it would garner much of a response even if he had said anything since Grif didn’t even bother answering his question. The tan-skinned man had a determined gait instead of his usual lazy walk as he dragged a dizzy Simmons along.

*****

Simmons blinked in bewilderment as Grif wrapped the cut on his forehead in a fluffy, sterile gauze. Who knew where he had pilfered that medical kit from? Grif was a man of mystery sometimes, although Simmons wouldn’t be shocked if Grif had just _“lifted”_ the kit from Doc.

The maroon-wearing soldier imagined he looked ridiculous with his red hair wet and hanging plastered to the sides of his skull thanks to the dunk under the warm water of the sink that Grif had just insisted on subjecting him to.

Grif leaned over the redhead as he admired his handiwork in the mirror, “Better?”

Simmons could only gulp and nod, the last several minutes mostly a blur in his mind. _Blood, hands, sink, water, gauze, awkwardness._

Grif smirked, “Good. Figured you wouldn’t want to go to the crazy doctor lady if you could avoid it.”

Simmons nodded his head in rather earnest agreement, “Th—thanks.”

“Besides,” Grif continued as if he hadn’t heard Simmons, “I figured that this way, I could finally do it.”

Simmons was thoroughly confused by this point, “Do what?” He asked, red eyebrow raised in genuine curiosity.

Grif looked down at the cyborg and his smirk only widened, his large tan hand still resting noticeably on Simmons’ shoulder, “Take care of you for a change, kiss-ass.”

Simmons said nothing in response, but he felt his face become even redder than it had been a second ago.

“So,” Grif gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, his touch lingering right on that troublesome spot where Simmons’ metallic parts met his flesh, “Anything you’d like to do next?”

That was right about when Simmons decided that he could be all right with getting pampered by someone else. At least every once in a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what prompted this story, save for a sudden urge to write something fluffy and copious amounts of caffeine. XD I hope it wasn’t too random or out of character! :)
> 
> Also, bonus points for you if you happen to know what sitcom the title for this story comes from! XD


	21. Transcendent Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Grif keeps getting asked for relationship advice._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~Jensen x Palomo  
> ~Sarge x Grey  
> ~Bitthews  
> ~Robonut  
> ~Carwash
> 
>  **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~Set immediately after the ending to Season 13. Has allusions to Season 15.  
> ~Written for the 15kisses comm on Dreamwidth. The prompt was “Sagittarius: #8 Transcend.”
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

Dexter Grif glanced up apathetically from his meal in the mess hall at the sound of someone setting their tray down on the other side of the table. Truth be told, he expected the mealtime intruder to be Simmons since the redhead was running late. Plus, normally other people avoided sitting with Grif. That was probably on account of how he stole food from the trays of slow eating victims nearby, so people tended to sit by him during mealtimes at their own risk.

Simmons was one of the only people who could stand Grif’s _“food ninja”_ escapades, so he just assumed the nerd was the one joining him like always. Grif already had a lazy comeback on the tip of his tongue for the no doubt coming exasperated remarks about his eighth plate of food. Simmons was nothing if not a predictable kiss-ass.

…Except maybe this time, because, to Grif’s surprise, it was actually Charles Palomo who sat down at his table instead. The dark-skinned man had a nervous grin plastered onto his young face, as if he was having the best day ever. Seeing that gleeful expression, the orange-armored soldier suddenly understood Tucker’s animosity towards the Chorus rookie.

“Tucker’s not here.” Grif came out and said the first thing that came to mind at the unexpected sight, hoping Palomo would get the hint that the mess hall usually served as Grif’s alone time. 

Besides, the only reason that Palomo would sit here would be for the captain that he was always sucking up to, you know? Palomo and Grif weren’t exactly pals, not that Tucker and Palomo were either.

Still, Palomo clearly admired Tucker for reasons no one in their right mind could fathom. The lieutenant reminded him a bit of Matthews in that regard, although it was obvious why Matthews would admire his captain. Grif was a fucking maverick, after all.

A morose part of his mind reminded Grif that he still needed to check in again on the lieutenant in yellow-trimmed armor in the hospital. Damn it. Grif didn’t like thinking deep things when he was eating. He wasn’t a nerd like Simmons. He stabbed at the potatoes on his tray with his fork and tunneled the food into his mouth, eyes watching the tan and aqua-armored lieutenant in the hopes that he’d be leaving soon.

“Oh, I know, sir!” Palomo instead told him in his exuberant tone of voice, “I was…um, actually hoping to speak to you, Captain Grif.”

Grif raised an apathetic eyebrow at the unexpected reveal, “You were?”

“Yeah!” The dark-haired rookie exclaimed readily before nervously looking around and lowering his voice when he felt it was safe to continue, “It’s…um…about Jensen.”

“Jensen.” Grif repeated, feeling a headache beginning to loom.

It wasn’t as if Palomo’s crush on the tan-skinned girl was any huge secret, but he really didn’t want to deal with this shit while he was eating. Or ever. “Wouldn’t it be better to talk to Simmons about her?” He tried, hoping that Palomo would take the bait and go find the redhead instead.

The young man blushed, “I er…I’d be afraid he’d be overprotective, sir.”

Well, that made sense. Simmons _had_ started taking an almost father-like interest in the maroon-trimmed lieutenant’s wellbeing recently. Nothing like an anxiety-ridden, stressed out, and overprotective father figure.

“Right.” Grif replied as he nodded his head in understanding, “Got it. So, what’s this about then?” He was hoping he could get Palomo to tell him what was going on and then be done with it, his mind already wandering back down to the food on his tray that taunted him in its current uneaten state.

Palomo leaned forward again, the blush on his cheeks intensifying, “I’d like to ask Katie out.”

Grif leaned back in his seat, arching a dark-colored eyebrow again, “And you couldn’t talk to Tucker about this because…?”

“Captain Tucker talks big, but he doesn’t really have any close relationships, you know?” Palomo sighed, "He’s a _ladies’_ man, after all. He can’t be tied down.”

Geez, this kid was gullible if he honestly believed all of Tucker’s shitty _bow-chicka-bow-wow_ talk. Grif couldn’t decide if he was more annoyed at Tucker or Palomo at this point for having been forced into this conversation.

“Okay. So, why ask _me_ for advice then?” Grif asked, honestly wanting to know.

The aqua-trimmed lieutenant blinked, the expression on his face clearly saying that the answer should be obvious, “Because you’re in a really, really close relationship?”

_This_ was news to Grif, “With who?”

Palomo was now looking at the older man as though he had sprouted two heads, “With Captain Simmons. Duh.”

It was a good thing that Grif had resisted the urge to take another bite out of his food, because he would have been choking then and there.

“We’re not dating!” He finally blurted out before remembering he had a laidback reputation to uphold.

“You’re not?” The young man asked. The way Palomo looked at him, with brown eyes wide in disbelief, indicated he thought Grif was full of shit.

“No, we’re not.” Grif tried again, “Who told you that we fucking were?”

“Well, Captain Tucker always says you’re married,” Palomo began, “And everyone kind of just assumes.”

Really, _everyone_ assumes? They all needed to mind their own damn business then. Fucking assholes.

Grif sighed, “Nothing is going on between me and Simmons. At all.” He finally informed the lieutenant, hoping that put an end to all these assumptions.

“If you say so, sir.” But, Palomo’s tone clearly indicated that he wasn’t buying it. The wink he gave Grif a second later was an even bigger sign, but before the chubby man could argue once more Palomo tried again: “ _So_ , about Jensen…”

“Look, kid, just ask her out already.”

Grif couldn’t wait until this uncomfortable conversation was over with.

*****

Richard “Dick” Simmons joined Grif at the table mere seconds after Palomo had upped and left, the lieutenant thanking Grif for his _“advice.”_

Right on cue, the redhead couldn’t help but make a face at Grif’s eighth plate of food. Simmons was nothing if not a predictable kiss-ass, after all.

“You’ve been here for over two hours, fat-ass.” Simmons chided after a whole ten seconds of silence.

Grif shrugged nonchalantly and stuffed another bite of potato mush into his mouth, “A man’s got to eat, Simmons.”

Simmons couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the pseudo-sage tone of Grif’s voice just then. Instead of ridiculing the heavyset man further, however, he brought a forkful of food up to his own mouth. There was a red tinge on Simmon’s pale face that made his freckles stand out, almost like a blush.

Grif watched him for a moment before speaking, “Why so late, Simmons?”

He didn’t care. Not really. But, had Simmons come on time then maybe Grif wouldn’t have had to have that awkward-as-all-fuck moment with Palomo. So, really, the nerd was just as much to blame as Tucker and Palomo.

Simmons paused, his face going full on red in a shade that would surely make Sarge proud, “Oh! Um…Jensen wanted to talk.”

There was something about the high-pitched way the cyborg spoke then that had Grif raising an eyebrow in curiosity, “No shit.” He said, “Relationship advice?”

Simmons stared at the tan-skinned man in open surprise, “H—how’d you know?”

Grif shrugged disinterestedly, “Lucky guess.” He told him, “I fucking rock at those.”

“I…I’m not sure why she came to me about it.” The cyborg frowned in contemplation, “I hope I didn’t fuck things up for her.”

Grif’s eyes caught sight of Palomo and Jensen huddled together at one of the tables farther away, all awkwardly holding hands and blushing smiles.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Simmons.” He advised, gesturing towards to two rookies.

When he saw the worrywart slowly start to relax at his words, Grif went back to eating as their usual companionable silence settled between them. If he cast a few contemplative looks Simmons’ way, the other man was too engrossed in his own thoughts to notice.

The blush, however, still remained on the cyborg’s face. Simmons seemed to find his food incredibly fascinating at the moment, eyes definitely avoiding the chubby man in front of him.

Grif couldn’t keep himself from wondering why.

*****

“Oh, there you are!”

Grif couldn’t help the involuntary nervous stiffening of his muscles at the sound of Doctor Emily Grey’s cheerful voice coming up from behind him. One would probably call it a survival instinct: that moment before fight or flight took hold.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” The woman in purple-trimmed armor stated as she sidled up next to Grif, a manic gleam in her dark eyes.

Grif took in a deep breath, trying not to let the dark-skinned woman know just how much her very presence there unnerved him, “What’s up, Doctor Grey?” He frowned, “Is Matthews…?”

Shit. He hoped that wasn’t the reason they were talking. Grif had been meaning to check on the young kiss-ass soon, but he kept finding other stuff to do instead. Like eating and sleeping. Truth be told, hospital visits weren’t really his thing.

Doctor Grey waved her heads in a dismissive gesture and he was fairly certain that the borderline psychotic smile gracing her features was meant to be reassuring if it had belonged to someone sane, “He’s healing nicely, Captain Grif.” She told him matter-of-factly, “He _should_ be well enough to get discharged in the next couple of days.”

Grif let out a sigh of relief that he hadn’t known he’d been holding, but that was followed by a frown as he wondered just then why the doctor had approached him in the first place.

As if reading his mind, Doctor Grey carried on, “Actually, I was hoping that I could get your advice on something.”

“You want _my_ advice?” He asked, staring at the woman with a genius level intellect in disbelief, “Why?”

The dark-skinned woman nodded, a thoughtful frown pursing her lips, “Well, I tried asking Captain Simmons before and the poor man nearly fainted!”

_…I can’t imagine why._ Fortunately, Grif was smart enough not to say that out loud to the scary doctor lady.

“What I’d like to ask your opinion on is Sarge.” Doctor Grey told him quietly, as if afraid the conversation would carry down the empty halls.

“Sarge.” Grif said flatly, already regretting that he hadn’t listened to his flight instinct. Damn his lazy, slow movements!

She nodded, an oddly hopeful look crossing her features that only slightly undermined the crazy lurking underneath, “You see, there’s an upcoming combat robotics lecture. It’s the first since the war ended, and I was hoping that—”

“You’d like him to be your plus one.” Grif couldn’t help but groan and interrupt her train of thought, _“Sarge.”_

“An excellent deduction!” Doctor Grey grinned, a blush seeping onto her skin, “You’re smarter than your appearance would suggest!”

“Gee, thanks.” He muttered sarcastically, “But what makes you think I could fucking give you advice on something like that? And for fucking _Sarge_ of all people?”

It wasn’t exactly a secret that Grif and Sarge didn’t really get along too well. After all, the vast majority of the old guy’s battle plans involved a certain orange-armored soldier being used as a human shield.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Doctor Grey asked, confused by the tan-skinned man’s statement, “After all, you and Captain Simmons…”

Grif felt his face heat up involuntarily as she trailed off, clearly believing she didn’t need to state the obvious. He couldn’t suppress a groan at what he knew she was indicating.

Doctor Grey frowned at his reaction, “Well, now, really! If you two wanted it to be something of a secret, then you shouldn’t make it so obvious!” With that she suddenly thought of something and grabbed Grif’s shoulder in concern, “Is Captain Simmons afraid of teasing? Because I can tell him the same thing I told Captain Caboose: bullies around here get introduced to my scalpel collection!”

Grif suddenly felt rather sorry for anyone who she caught bullying someone else, and made yet another note to stay on the doctor’s good side. People might be assholes, but he doubted many deserved whatever it was Doctor Grey had in mind for punishment.

“No. Well, yes. Simmons is always afraid of teasing, but that’s not it.” Grif replied as he shook his dark-haired head, “We’re not dating.”

“Of course not! If you say so.” Doctor Grey nodded her head in such a conspiratorial way that clearly indicated she didn’t believe a word of what he had just said, “Now, about approaching Sarge…”

“Just ask him.” He sighed, figuring there wasn’t any point in wasting energy trying to correct her further, “I’m sure he’s crazy enough to say yes.”

…Particularly if said robotics lecture was going to be about attaching robots to someone, or giving robots guns of some kind.

Besides, Grif had seen Sarge looking over at Doctor Grey when the older man didn’t think anyone was looking. The chubby man was nothing if not observant, and he had no doubt that Sarge would say yes if Doctor Emily Grey asked him out. …As much as he would want to bleach out the mental images that a date of theirs would leave in his head well after this conversation.

She smiled and nodded her head, dark hair bobbing with the gesture, “Thank you, Captain Grif.” She told him before turning to go. However, Doctor Grey paused before glancing thoughtfully over at him once again, “Are you positive that you and Captain Simmons aren’t dating?” She asked, “Such a shame! Your scars compliment his so well!”

Grif wasn’t sure _how_ someone could say something like that with a bright smile and such unbridled joy in their voice. Subconsciously, his hand went to rub the all too pale skin of his arm that used to belong to Simmons.

*****

“Hey,” Grif greeted Simmons with when he came to join him for their nightly talk, “You just missed everyone’s favorite crazy doctor.”

These nighttime discussions had become something of a habit for them ever since their nights spent standing guard back in Blood Gulch. They were even scheduled onto the maroon-armored soldier’s chore wheel that Grif kept pretending to ignore. Simmons was nothing if not a predictable kiss-ass, although Grif figured every once in a while he could be predictable too. Never a kiss-ass though. He had pride.

“R—really? Where?” Simmons’ head darted around fearfully, as if he was expecting Doctor Grey to jump out of the shadows _again_.

To be fair to the cyborg, she had done that once to him in an experiment involving a test for adrenaline levels or something. Said experiment had caused Simmons to faint on the spot. It was epic. Grif was _still_ mocking the nerd for it.

“Relax,” Grif said as he rolled his dark-colored eyes, “She’s not here anymore, kiss-ass.”

“I see.” Simmons visibly relaxed at that knowledge, “Lead with that next time. _Please_.”

Grif waited until the redhead was completely relaxed before springing his trap, “Yeah, evidently she wanted advice.”

“From you?” Simmons snorted, “On what? How to not take a bath for two weeks?”

They teased and mocked one another enough for Grif to expertly ignore Simmons save for a raised middle finger before he continued, “On how to pick up _Sarge_ of all things.”

_“What?!?”_

_That_ did the trick. Simmons’ face and neck turned a tomato red so quickly it was as if Grif had told him that Doctor Grey had been looking for the cyborg in order to give him a physical. Again, Sarge would be proud of the shade of red the kiss-ass had turned. Like always, Grif found it was a good look on the nerd. 

Grif watched in smug satisfaction as Simmons tried processing this new bit of information, the maroon-wearing man sputtering all the while. He tried not to focus on how Simmons’ metallic features complimented the pale skin and jagged scarring of his own body as Doctor Grey’s words played on repeat in the back of his mind.

*****

“How’s he doing?” Were the first words out of Dexter Grif’s mouth when he entered Matthews’ hospital room only to find that the currently sleeping lieutenant was not alone.

Antoine Bitters shrugged his shoulders from where he sat by Matthews’ bedside, “He’s doing all right.” He told his captain, “He’ll be discharged tomorrow.”

“And back to kissing ass in no time flat.” Grif couldn’t help but joke in an encouraging sort of way, eyes awkwardly wandering around the tiny hospital room.

It _was_ pretty good news that the kid was getting out of the hospital soon, even if the auburn-haired rookie drove Grif up the wall with his overenthusiasm. He might not appreciate Matthews’ kiss-ass tendencies, but Grif hated the sights, sounds, and smells of hospitals even more.

“Yeah.” Bitters looked down at Matthews with an oddly fond smile on his dark-skinned face before turning to the heavyset man again with a frown, “Do you want me to wake him, or…?”

“Nah, let him sleep.” Grif replied as he shook his head, “I’m sure I’ll be seeing him around soon enough.”

“Good.” Bitters said as he visibly relaxed in his chair, “Because I wouldn’t have done it anyways. I just wanted to see how big of an asshole you are. Matthews sucks up so much that he doesn’t get enough sleep as it is.”

“Right.”

Grif was somewhat reminded of how he would let Kai rest after she pulled all-nighters for school or was sick, of how his little sister had done the same for him after he had worked his ass off for some dead-end job just to make ends meet for the two of them.

He recalled how he sometimes turned off their morning alarms to make sure that Simmons got some much needed sleep, even if the nerd bitched him out for it later.

He watched the fond way that Bitters looked at Matthews, and a sudden tightness formed in his chest. It must have been heartburn from the five lunches he ate earlier in the day.

“How are you doing?” Grif asked the orange-trimmed lieutenant, wanting to fill the silence so that he wasn’t left to think about Kai, Simmons, and hospital sounds.

Bitters frowned suspiciously, “Fine, I guess.” He paused in a hesitant way before adding, “Better now.”

No doubt _because_ Matthews was about to be released soon.

“You don’t need any advice from me?”

Bitters looked at Grif in exactly the same way that Palomo had, as if the older man had grown an extra head in the span of two seconds, “Why the hell would I need any advice from you?” He questioned, “Sir.”

Grif sighed, “Forget it. Force of habit.” He frowned in thought, “I’ve just had a shitload of uncomfortable relationship talks with people lately.”

Bitters’ eyes darted to Matthews then, and Grif noticed that his armored orange-trimmed hands twitched as if they wanted to grab on to his friend just to make sure he was really there. The normally angry lieutenant with multi-colored hair squared his shoulders.

“We’re already seeing each other,” Bitters told him plainly, dark eyes narrowed, “And no offense? But, you’d be the last person I’d come to for relationship advice.”

“Why is that?” Grif asked, more curious than anything else. Bitters was such a fucking maverick.

“…Because you and Captain Simmons haven’t gotten your shit together yet.”

*****

Bitters’ words were still ringing in Grif’s ears when he came to the room that he shared with Simmons. It seemed natural that they’d share a bunker, so when they’d first gotten to Chorus, they had both volunteered to share a room again because they were already used to doing so. So much had changed, but that didn’t have to.

Opening the door, the orange-armored soldier found that Simmons was already asleep. The redhead had no doubt exhausted himself by overworking once again, despite the fact that there was technically peace on Chorus now and they could actually fucking relax and take it easy for once. Fucking kiss-ass.

For a second, Grif considered waking Simmons to tell him the news about Matthews. The cyborg would want to know that the auburn-haired lieutenant was doing okay, at least. But, ultimately, Grif decided against it when he noticed the very full chore wheel taped to the wall behind Simmons’ sleeping form.

The nerd worked himself into a tizzy every day. So, in the rare instances when the cyborg actually slept, Grif really didn’t have the desire to wake him.

He canceled the alarm that Simmons had set up, resigning himself to hearing the redhead’s usual restive tirade about that action tomorrow morning before going to bed himself.

*****

“I love him, I _really_ do! But, sometimes it is like we’re both talking in completely different languages!” Franklin Delano Donut stated emphatically in-between the last few bites of lettuce from his salad.

Grif rolled his eyes, having had enough of this _“bitch to Grif about relationships”_ shit from even before his pink-armored teammate had sat down next to him in the mess hall.

“That’s because you _are_ speaking two completely different languages.” He finally informed Donut matter-of-factly, fork stabbing into his potatoes.

Naturally, Donut seemed to process his words on an entirely different level than what Grif had intended. The dirty blond nodded his head as if he had just been told something deeply profound instead of the apathetic words of a lazy guy wanting to be left alone to eat his food in peace.

“I knew asking you was the right call, Grif, since you and Simmons communicate so well despite your differences!” Donut said, positively beaming as he stood up with his tray in his hands, “I can’t wait to tell Lopez!”

Grif had a sneaking suspicion that the Spanish-speaking robot would be just as enthused as he felt on whatever had just happened as he watched Donut literally _skip_ out of the mess hall. The man in lightish-red narrowly avoided bumping into Tucker, who was currently making his way over to the table as Grif groaned inwardly. So much for eating his sixth meal in private.

“What the fuck was that about?” Tucker asked without preamble as he sat down, “I mean, besides Donut being Donut.”

“Beats me.“ Grif said as he shrugged, “Donut evidently wanted relationship advice.”

Tucker raised a dark-haired eyebrow, “From you?”

The chubby man rolled his eyes, “It’s because everyone thinks that Simmons and I are a couple.”

“Wait, you mean you fucking aren’t?” The teal-wearing man asked, looking absolutely scandalized, “Are you sure?”

Grif glared at him, ignoring the fact that his face was heating up slightly. His fork stabbed the potatoes, willing Tucker to take the hint and leave him the fuck alone.

“Now that you mention relationship advice,” Tucker looked thoughtful himself then, humming slightly and so obviously not getting the hint, “I _have_ been thinking of setting up Washington and Carolina.”

Grif nearly spit out his food just then, “W—what?” He couldn’t help but blurt out, “Fucking why? Can humanity even handle that?”

Tucker shrugged, “Just a whim, really.” He got a mischievous look in his brown eyes, “Any advice, fat-ass?”

“Try not to get killed?” Grif was unable to stop himself from saying.

After all, knowing Washington and Carolina, a retaliation of bodily harm was definitely a possibility.

The dark-skinned man nodded his head, “I was figuring that I’d lock them in a storage closet when we visit the Temple of Procreation later.”

“So you’re going to ignore my advice, I see.”

There was a brief pause as Tucker and Grif both began eating once more, though that only lasted a second before Tucker was regarding Grif curiously once again.

“You and Simmons have totally banged though, right?” Tucker suddenly asked, narrowly avoiding the tray full of mushy potatoes thrown his way.

“Goddamn it, Tucker!”

*****

“Whatcha up to, kiss-ass?” Grif asked rather lazily as he watched Simmons prepare his gear pack for what was, no doubt, the millionth time since Grif had stepped into their shared room.

“What do you think?” Simmons rolled his eyes as if the answer should be obvious, which it totally was, “I’m getting ready for our mission to the Temple of Procreation, fat-ass.”

Right. Kimball was ordering a check of all of the alien temples on Chorus now that the fighting was over. This meant that the Reds and Blues were going along due to Tucker’s energy sword being the _“key”_ to accessing the buildings’ technology.

Grif wasn’t particularly looking forward to having to do _actual_ work again, but he figured that retirement was right around the corner for once. Fucking finally.

As the orange-armored soldier gazed over at Simmons, a thought occurred to him, “Hey, has anyone asked your advice on anything recently?”

“No,” Simmons said as his brow scrunched up in thought, “But Donut fucking thanked and hugged me out of the blue today. What was up with that?”

Grif gave a half-assed shrug before replying: “Oh, he thinks that we’re a couple and, because of that, I somehow gave him good advice about Lopez.”

“W—what?!?” Simmons’ voice rose in pitch and his face became a shade of red that rivaled Sarge’s armor.

…It was a good look on him. A thought that Grif tried to ignore in order to still play it casual. “Yeah,” he began, “Evidently everyone thinks we’ve been together for a while now. You’ve never heard that before?”

“N—no…” Simmons laughed nervously in that way he did when he was totally lying.

An awkward silence filled the room, neither man wanting to say what was _really_ on their minds right then.

Because…if everyone already thought it, and they pretty much had the routine down pat to begin with, why not just make it fucking official?

The reality of words they hadn’t spoken lingered between them.

“So,” Grif said instead, looking anywhere but at the still blushing Simmons, “The Temple of Procreation, huh?”

“Yeah.” Simmons nodded his head, his gear pack utterly fascinating at this point in time.

Fuck it. They pretty much _were_ together at this point. Why rock the status quo and potentially fuck things up by saying something about it?

So long as Simmons stayed around, Grif was fine.

“Tucker is going to try to get Washington and Carolina together by locking them in a storage closet while we’re there.” Grif said casually enough, wanting to get their conversation flowing again like always.

“Seriously?” Simmons took the bait, his face only having a pinkish tinge to it now as he stared at Grif incredulously.

…That was another of the maroon-armored man’s looks that Grif had already committed to memory. Simmons’ freckles stood out like a mosaic amidst that slight blush.

“I know, right?” Grif grinned, “Who’s ever heard of a relationship advancing by being locked together in a fucking closet?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is a gift for my sister, Breyzy, who also happens to be my amazing Beta reader! Thank you so much for always helping me out, sis! I hope that this story is enjoyable for you and not too horribly written! XD


	22. What Should Be Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Grif needs to learn to knock._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~Transgender Character  
> ~Written for the 15kisses comm on Dreamwidth. The prompt was “Sagittarius: #13 Blushing.”
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

Richard “Dick” Simmons’ face was on fire as he stood frozen in place, heart pounding in his chest. He couldn’t believe that the fat-ass didn’t have the common decency to knock. Well, actually, he could because Dexter Grif was just that fucking lazy. Having to lift an arm and a hand to knock on a door was probably just too much energy for Grif to exert.

So, instead, the orange-armored soldier just stormed right in and now all of Simmons’ carefully arranged schedules and plans to keep this one thing to himself were out the window. _Damn it, Grif!_

Simmons gulped, now afraid of stepping out of the bathroom. Would Grif tell everyone? Would it become some sick joke that would serve to only further make him the laughingstock of Red Base?

Donut would no doubt shoot him sympathetic or pitying looks, which would make things even worse. Who the hell knew what Sarge or Lopez would do. And what would Grif say? Somehow, he couldn’t take the thought of it being just another joking insult casually thrown between them.

…Because this wasn’t something one joked about. Not at all.

Simmons’ parents had thought he was joking right up until they suddenly hadn’t, when they had no longer wanted a _“freak daughter.”_ He wasn’t ever their daughter, but that was beside the point. He knew what their statements meant. He had seen how they had just watched him leave with such embarrassed, hurtful looks in their eyes. He so desperately wished he could forget.

He wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ , go through that again.

He took a deep breath in shakily, then let it out. Right. It was time to just find Grif and get this fucking over with, much as he was loath to do so.

He finished getting dressed and wandered around Red Base searching for his orange-wearing teammate, unsurprised to hear the base’s kitchen was in use. That was definitely the first place one should go to when searching for Dexter Grif.

“Hey, nerd.”

He didn’t have to wait too long to find the tan-skinned man either as Grif greeted him casually enough from the kitchen, two cups of coffee on the table top by which Grif sat.

“H—hey.”

All of the indignant anger, the desperate desire to beg for mercy, the fear that Simmons had felt faded to an unsure, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Grif kicked the chair out next to him, beckoning the lanky redhead over in the laziest way possible as he grasped his cup of coffee.

Simmons sat down, not at all sure of how this conversation would play out. A part of him wanted to berate Grif for just barging in like he had, but that part was frozen in silence as he waited for the heavyset man to say something. Steam from the coffee mugs wafted upwards, and Simmons found it the only thing he could really stare at in the room.

“Sorry about earlier.” Grif uncharacteristically spoke up a little while later, offering Simmons the other mug of coffee as he did so since Simmons had simply been sitting there like a deer caught in the headlights, “But when you gotta go, you gotta go. You know?”

Simmons couldn’t help but snort and roll his eyes, “At least knock first, jackass.”

The routine was the same as always, and Simmons was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Would it hurt, or…?

Grif took a sip of his coffee, carefully studying Simmons. At length, he put his mug down and Simmons nearly flinched as if he was going to hit him. “You’re _you_ , Simmons.” He stated almost too quietly for Simmons to catch, his sincerity almost painful in its earnestness.

For a lazy asshole, Grif could definitely get to the heart of the matter rather quick. When he wanted to. Which usually wasn’t often.

Since when was Simmons an exception of Grif’s? Simmons couldn’t help but sit up a bit taller at the thought, “I know.”

From behind their mugs, the two smiled slightly at one another. Neither chose to comment on the redness creeping up on their faces just then. The fucking coffee was still hot, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A work I wrote in honor of this week being _RvB_ Trans Week. I hope it isn’t too terribly written or anything like that!


	23. Cell Communication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A conversation between bars._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
>  **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~ **MASSIVE SPOILERS** for Season 15 through Episode 16. **SPOILERS, I SAY!**  
>  ~Written for the 15kisses comm on Dreamwidth. The prompt was “Sagittarius: #7 Determined.” 
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

“So…Locus, huh?” Simmons asked from where he stood in his cell, awkwardly trying to appear cool.

Richard “Dick” Simmons wasn’t “cool” and the idea of him playing at it was amusingly painful to witness. Dexter Grif, sitting close in the cell next to Simmons’, didn’t care about that though. What he fucking cared about was that the nerd was fucking _there_ with him, and not in a conveniently portable form that he could spike over a net.

“Yep,” Grif said as he nodded his orange helmeted head in reply, “I bet he’s already fucking found Washington and Carolina as we speak.”

Because, let’s face it, Grif had participated in an extremely kick-ass distraction plan. No one would have guessed he was working with a mercenary like Locus. Even Grif sometimes had a hard time believing it, but then again he had spent the last few days talking to friends he had made out of volleyballs.

Grif could tell that Simmons was frowning behind his helmet when he spoke again: “And you think we can trust him?”

They were talking quietly to one another as Donut hummed a song to himself in his cell. Across the corridor, Tucker silently conversed with Caboose. The two Blues were probably still talking about the big Church reveal while they waited to be rescued.

…Man, that Temple guy was such a _dick_. And not in the good way, like one Richard “Dick” Simmons was.

Grif felt himself let out a sigh of contentment. He had missed, really fucking _missed_ , just talking to his buddy—no, _friend_ , like this.

…Yeah, _friend_. One that he had a lot of feelings for. Feelings that he was so fucking finally ready to get off his chest.

“Locus did help me get this far.” Grif finally pointed out when he heard Simmons’ cybernetic hand tap against the armor of his flesh arm in an impatient tick and he realized that he had never actually responded to the redhead.

Simmons nodded before sliding down to the ground in the same posture as Grif. The chubby man’s heart swelled at the sight and he swallowed, surprisingly both happy and nervous all at once.

“I’m just so glad you got my message.” Simmons informed Grif, glancing in front of him with his hands on his armored knees, “That you actually came for us.”

Grif shifted slightly so that he was staring at his _friend_ through the bars, “Simmons…”

There was so much he wanted to say here. He wanted to apologize again for leaving like he had. He wanted to tell Simmons that he _did_ want to talk about what had happened in the storage closet back on Chorus, that it had been one of the singular best nights of his life _ever_.

He wanted to say, _needed_ to say, that he lo—

Simmons shifted so that his shoulder was touching Grif’s through the bars, and all thoughts in Grif’s mind short-circuited at the unexpected contact.

“I should have said something back then too.” Simmons murmured quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Grif swallowed again, “Don’t worry about it. I was being an ass.”

“Yeah, but…”

“It’s okay, Simmons.” He leaned into the touch, surprised and happy when Simmons didn’t pull back, “There’s a lot we still need to talk about.”

“Yeah, definitely.”

Grif’s hand tentatively reached through the bars and found Simmons’. He entwined his fingers around the cyborg’s and gently squeezed, heart thundering in response when Simmons squeezed back.

They stayed like that as they waited, orange and maroon armored shoulders touching and hands entwined with an unspoken promise to finally say what they really felt dangling in-between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My second update today for _Pillow Talk_ since I felt bad that I didn’t get to update any of my WIP stories this week! This is just a short Season 15 response fic because this season keeps giving me so many Grimmons feels. :D A bit more cute and fluffy this time around! I hope it was an enjoyable read. :)


	24. Boredom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Grif was always bored until he met Simmons. Now he has someone to be boring with. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~Written for the 15kisses comm on Dreamwidth. The prompt was “Sagittarius: #6 Boredom.”  
> ~Either set in-between Seasons 12 and 13, or during Season 13. 
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

Dexter Grif had a reputation, one that he liked to keep up for appearance’s sake. This reputation stated that the orange-armored soldier practically oozed apathetic-ness from his very core, though that wasn’t necessarily true. Honestly, he cared deeply about the _few_ things that mattered to him. Still, he didn’t want _that_ to show on the surface. Reputation, after all: mavericks weren’t supposed to care. No, they were rebels who maverick-ed uncaringly.

The truth wasn’t really that he was apathetic, but that Grif was _bored_ with his everyday life. He had felt that way even when growing up, at least in those moments when he wasn’t busy trying to raise Kai. …Admittedly, it was hard to be bored when Kaikaina Grif was one’s little sister.

So, yeah, he was usually just bored. But, he also found that he didn’t want to be bothered with doing anything that might break his fatigue. Grif rather _liked_ the boredom. It was a sign that he could finally fucking relax and take a break. If he was bored, it meant that he was alive and safe. Even if he didn’t like being bored, he liked what the boredom symbolized.

That bored feeling had only intensified when he had been forcibly drafted into the army, when he had been forced to fight in a war that was beyond stupid and pointless. It had grown in his spare time outside of the countless battles, even all the way out here on Chorus.

If Dexter Grif felt bored, then that meant he was alive in his boredom. If people thought he was apathetic because he was bored, who was he to change their preconceived notion? It would have been too much effort to correct them. He was bored and lazy, not a people person.

Philosophical self-analysis done for the day, Grif sighed lazily to himself while relaxing in his secret hiding spot. The heavier set man was already feeling the familiar threads of boredom pulling at him as he heard the sounds of exuberant yelling and possible explosions from far away.

…Maybe he could sneak in a quick nap after all. His dark eyes closed. Just as he was about to enter a dreamless sleep—

“This is all your fucking fault, you know.”

Grif didn’t even have to open his eyes to picture Richard “Dick” Simmons standing above him. He imagined maroon-armored arms crossed as Simmons glowered at his lazy teammate with a looming look of disapproval clouding his pale, freckled features.

“Hello to you too, Simmons.” Grif greeted casually in turn, not bothering to do more than turn slightly towards where the redhead’s voice had come from.

“Did you seriously convince Sarge that Washington had given him permission to train the lieutenants today?” Simmons grumbled as he let out a tired, frustrated sigh, “You can hear them all across Armonia!”

The tan-skinned man smirked, “I figured Washington could use the break.”

They all could, really. This genius plan of his was the perfect diversionary tactic to ensure that they got it. Best of all? His apathetic reputation would still be intact.

“Washington is going to kill you when he finds out.” Simmons noted, his voice taking on his customary lecture note, “If the lieutenants and Sarge don’t kill you first.”

“You gonna tell on me, nerd?” Grif asked as he finally cracked an eyelid open, amused to find that his imagination had been correct: Simmons stood in all of his frustrated kiss-ass glory above him.

Truth be told, it wasn’t even that hard to imagine the maroon-armored soldier there in the first place. The only one who had ever bothered looking for, and even eventually finding, his secret hideaway was Simmons. They had done this particular routine many times before.

“I figure you’ll get caught soon enough on your own, fat-ass.” Simmons replied as he sighed yet again and shook his head, his frustrated façade melting with the movement.

Like Grif, Simmons had a reputation to maintain. He was known as a kiss-ass nerd, and that’s what most people saw. It was only with Grif that Simmons ever let the façade slip. Of course, that was only once he still went through the motions.

Grif grinned and patted the ground next to him, “At least I’ll be well-rested by then.”

The redhead rolled his eyes as he muttered _“dumbass”_ under his breath. He sat down anyways.

A comfortable silence settled between them, punctuated only by the far away sounds of Sarge barking out orders. Grif felt himself relax as he imagined the two of them anywhere but there at that moment.

The tan-skinned man glanced over at Simmons before speaking up: “So, back to our earlier conversation...”

“What? About which comic book movie-verse is better?” Simmons replied as he raised an eyebrow, evidently having foolishly thought that their previously heated discussion was over and done with.

A dark-haired nod, “I’m still going with the DCEU. Their movies are darker than Marvel’s.” Grif told Simmons matter-of-factly, “Plus, they did _Wonder Woman_.”

“One good movie does not make up for an overall shitty franchise!” Simmons sputtered back indignantly, obviously horrified that this conversation was continuing.

Grif’s grin only widened at the sight of Simmons mentally checking off all of the good points that the MCU had to offer. A blip of excitement rushed through him even though anyone else listening would have probably found their conversation boring. Still, Grif knew this could turn into yet another of their spirited debates. If no one interrupted them, they could last for hours.

…Life with Simmons meant that Grif always had someone he could be boring with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that I wasn’t able to update any of my WIPs this week. It has been quite an odd one for me schedule-wise. But, I hope this fluffy little one shot was an enjoyable read still! …And I rather like both the MCU and the DCEU, myself. :D Thank you to everyone who reads! :)


	25. Freckles II - XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Donut’s penchant for innocent innuendos causes a bit of confusion._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
>  **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~Written for the 15kinks comm on Dreamwidth. The prompt was “Libra: #6 Puppy Pile.”  
> ~Set before Season 15, so possible spoilers for those who haven’t seen it yet.
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

It was nothing more than simple curiosity, coupled with a growing sense of boredom, which led to Richard “Dick” Simmons heading behind the bases on the moon to the location that Donut had specified.

He certainly had no idea of what to expect from his pink-armored teammate’s calligraphic invite, nor had he expected to meet one Dexter Grif along the way. The orange-armored man’s scented invitation was already in hand, which meant that they were headed to the same place.

The two skirted between awkward and normal these days, so Simmons wasn’t entirely surprised that Grif simply offered a shrug in way of greeting as they made their way to Donut’s location. Looked like awkward it was today.

…Speaking of the invitation’s location, whatever Simmons had been even subconsciously expecting to see there, _this_ was certainly not it.

“Hey, guys!” Donut beamed up at them from the squirming mass of undeniably fluffy _cuteness_ that was currently in his lap, “Glad you could make it!”

Yep. There was absolutely no denying that there was indeed a group of about ten puppies of indiscriminate breeds milling about in the field. The oddest thing about the whole experience wasn’t the dogs though. It was Donut acting as if the sight of puppies in the field was the most natural thing in the world. Hadn’t there been fucking dinosaurs here recently? Where the hell did the dogs come from?

Simmons also realized Donut wasn’t the only one in the field. Had he invited everybody? So far, besides himself, Grif, and Donut he noticed...

“Hello.” Caboose, unsurprisingly, was also there. The blond held two of the puppies gently to his chest, “Have you come to play with Freckles II through XI too?”

“No todos pueden ser llamados Pecas.” _{“They cannot all be named Freckles.”}_

Surprisingly enough, Lopez was there too. The Spanish-speaking robot was currently sitting on the ground with a flower chain around his neck, most likely Donut’s handiwork given how color-coordinated the blossoms were. Puppies clamored up and down his brown metallic legs.

Caboose nodded as if he understood what Lopez had said, “They are all so cute!”

Simmons and Grif decided to ignore Lopez and Caboose for the moment, turning their attention to Donut instead.

“Donut, what’s going on?” The maroon-armored man questioned, disturbed by so many of the things happening at the moment.

“Well, that should be pretty obvious, Simmons!” Donut stated matter-of-factly, “Didn’t you get my invitation?”

“Yeah, but…” Simmons tried to ask again, “Where did these puppies come from?”

“Oh, I know!” Caboose interjected helpfully, “Church gave me a book on that once. It has pictures.”

“...Por favor no.” _{“…Please, no.”}_

Donut grinned conspiratorially before stage whispering for dramatic effect: “I had Kimball arrange for them to come on the last supply transport. They’ll be back to pick them up by the end of the day.”

“…Why?” Simmons asked as he felt the beginning of a headache looming behind his eyelids.

“Because who doesn’t want the chance to play with a bunch of cute puppies for a while?” Donut replied, enthusiastically nodding his head as he spoke, “Plus, this helps them get used to people before they are put up for adoption. So, it’s all for a good cause!”

All right, well, at least Donut had seemed to put thought into this. That was more than he usually did when he had rather impromptu invitations involved. Simmons glanced towards the heavyset man next to him, about to ask what his take on all of this was when one of the puppies bounded over to Simmons and Grif, sniffing at their armor.

Simmons watched as Grif carefully picked the bundle of fur up far more gently than he’d expected of him. It licked the tan man’s face, tail wagging. Simmons _tried_ to resist the urge to extend his arms and demand that he get to hold the animal too.

As if reading his mind, Grif passed him the puppy anyway. Simmons couldn’t help but smile.

“See?” Donut stated triumphantly, “Everyone loves puppies!”

“Huh.” Grif said as he watched Simmons hold the puppy with an oddly fond look in his brown eyes, “So when your invite mentioned a puppy pile…”

“I meant a pile of puppies, of course!” The younger man put his hands on his pink-armored hips, though the action looked ridiculous now that there were puppies crawling all over him, “What did you think I meant?”

Grif and Simmons both looked at one another then, a silent communication flicking between them. “…Nothing.” They said in unison to Donut, just as Lopez fidgeted from his spot on the ground.

“¿Puede alguien decirles que no soy una boca de incendios?” _{“Can someone tell them that I am not a fire hydrant?”}_

*****

“…So, that happened.” Grif mused out loud, reaching for a cigarette.

“Yeah.” Simmons replied as he nodded his head in agreement, “Yeah, it did.”

They were currently sitting by the waterfall that Grif had claimed as his _“spot”_ when they had retired to the moon. Only Simmons was ever really allowed to stay there for any extended period of time, though the redhead had never really dared to ask why that was.

He supposed it had become just another unspoken thing between the two of them. One of many.

Not wanting to linger on that train of thought for too long, Simmons cleared his throat, “They were pretty cute though, weren’t they?”

The maroon-armored soldier just knew that poor Caboose would have a hard time saying goodbye to the puppies later on. Shit, Simmons had sniffled a little when he had finally decided it was time to put _“Freckles VIII”_ down on the grass again to rejoin his frolicking littermates.

Still, the blue-armored young man seemed to be enjoying himself along with Donut and, oddly enough, Lopez. So, that was definitely a good thing. He had been out of it ever since Church had…

He shook his head to clear the unfinished thought. He didn’t really want to dwell on that subject either.

Simmons glanced over at Grif, who was now exhaling a bunch of cigarette smoke. The cyborg made a face at the sight. Maybe he should make another comment about how Grif was ruining _his_ lungs to get things back on track…

“They’re puppies, Simmons.” Grif said matter-of-factly as he put the cigarette out, “Of course they’re cute.”

“R—right.” Simmons replied, suddenly lapsing into silence again.

The moment was peaceful and heavy all at once. It was just the two of them, with the gushing noise of the waterfall behind their backs. Simmons sighed, wondering to himself if he should maybe get up and see if there was any work that needed to be done.

But, all thoughts of doing so drifted away when he felt Grif’s strong arm resting against his shoulders. The heavyset man’s fingers suddenly gripped him securely, as if to keep him in place.

Simmons was stunned into further silence when Grif pulled his lanky body gently to rest against his.

He opened his mouth to ask what the hell the chubby man was doing, when Grif’s hand found its way to the top of Simmons’ head. He started running his fingers through the red hair gently, but with enough pressure that Simmons felt it.

…Grif was _petting_ him.

He gasped as, unsurprisingly, his body melted into the touch of its own accord. After all, it was just the two of them here. They hadn’t touched one another since…

…Since that time they were locked away together in that storage closet on Chorus.

Cautiously, desperate not to have this contact initiated by Grif end too suddenly, Simmons reached out with his human hand to stroke Grif’s neck. Grif paused for only a second, a smile reassuring Simmons that it was more than okay for him to continue before he did so as well.

From this angle, Simmons could feel Grif’s breath on his warming cheeks. He tilted his head up slightly, their mouths now only centimeters apart as they continued touching the other.

Did Grif _know_? Did he know how much Simmons wanted to talk about what had happened before between them? How he so desperately wanted it to happen again and…

Just as their lips touched, Donut’s voice rang out from farther away: _“Uh-oh! Hey, Grif! One of the puppies had an accident in your room!”_

…Just like that, whatever spell had been cast on the two of them dissipated into thin air.

Simmons couldn’t help but snort back a bit of laughter just as Grif sighed, a smile still pressed onto his lips. Grif’s hand was still resting on top of his head. Simmons’ hand still touched Grif’s neck.

They leaned forward together until their foreheads touched. Just for a moment.

And then Grif stood up to shout “Goddamn it, Donut!” before heading towards their moon residence.

…Simmons went right along with him, wondering if it was Freckles VIII who had gotten into Grif’s room. If so, the redhead wondered if that meant he had the chance to hold him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what happened here. XD Just a silly little story with a whole lot of fluff and some intimate moments! :) Haha, one of these days I am going to work up the courage to write my take on what happened in that storage closet. Just you wait! XD


	26. Hate Glue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Simmons tries to talk to Grif about his “hate glue” remark._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~Set during Season 15, so there are some **SPOILERS** for those who haven’t seen the whole thing yet.
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

All things considered, Dexter Grif felt rather good about himself as he made his way through the empty base. Sure, he hated giving anything that remotely seemed like a motivational speech, but Tucker sure as fuck seemed motivated now. So, he guessed it counted as a win. Sort of.

Now, they just had to get ready for the trip to Earth. Hopefully the preparations had all been taken care of while he was out talking to Tucker. So, basically, he’d be at a win-win if everything went according to plan.

“Hey, Grif?”

His name was said rather hesitatingly from inside one of the long empty bunkers, and the orange-armored soldier couldn’t help but pause at the all-too familiar voice that had uttered it. His gaze traversed until he found the anxiety-riddled source.

Grif was surprised to find Simmons sitting down on one of the threadbare mattresses inside the dark room, his maroon helmet in his hands as if it was attempting to shield his lanky form.

Simmons looked both thoughtful and nervous all at once, which wasn’t really too much of a shock. Given recent events, there was quite a bit to both think on and be stressed about. Besides, it was Simmons he was talking about here. When was the nerd not overanalyzing something in his perpetual worried state?

Of course, Grif’s brain was still reeling from how close he had been to just blurting out some really awkward things during the last time the two of them had talked. Those _“awkward things”_ would have most likely belonged in the category of Topics That Would Invariably Change Things Between The Two of Them Forever, so Grif really wasn’t sure what to make of the current situation.

Grif tried going for his usual sense of levity instead of dwelling all on potential awkward feeling talk, “What’s up, Simmons?” he asked, moving his armored hand against the wall to find the light switch, “I thought you would be helping the others instead of sitting in the dark all creepily.”

Simmons bristled slightly just as the lone lightbulb flickered to dim light overhead, “I…I have not been sitting here creepily!”

“If you say so.” Grif shrugged, not really caring either way, “Still didn’t answer my question.”

The redhead deflated considerably, looking somewhat apprehensively at the ground for some reason, “Everyone is all set and ready to go.” He explained, “Actually, I was…hoping to talk to you. You know, before we left.”

Grif tried not to pay any attention to the way his heartrate sped up ever so noticeably at the words coming from Simmons’ mouth. The words that were being directed at _him_. Honestly, if he dwelled on it too much he would just blurt out all of the things that he had been trying to tell Volleyball!Simmons back on the moon.

“Oh?” Grif said as he sauntered into the room as best he could and sat down next to Simmons on the dusty, sand-coated bed, “What about?” He tried to ignore the sense of _rightness_ that sitting or standing side-by-side like this with the maroon-armored soldier always instilled in him.

The still human portion of Simmons’ face turned slightly red at the question. The cyborg kept his gaze focused on the helmet resting in his lap, squirming uncomfortably a moment later under Grif’s brown gaze, “It’s about…what you said before.”

“Before?” Grif blinked slowly, trying to piece together what exactly Simmons meant.

“Before, um…you know…” Simmons tried to help jab the heavier set man’s memory, but seemed to believe he had failed miserably in his attempt.

Only…he hadn’t, not really. Grif knew that because he easily figured out what Simmons was referring to. The redhead was fucking predictable like that.

Simmons was talking about before they had both nearly vocalized something that had been building up between them for fucking years back at the underwater base. Right before Jax had butted in and made things even more awkward between them.

Grif’s face warmed slightly at the recollection, but he was something of an expert at ignoring that particular reaction now, “You mean the thing about me being the hate glue for the team?”

Honestly, he had never expected a response to his comment back then. Not really, anyways. He had just been voicing things that had been floating around in his head out loud. The volleyballs never spoke up when he talked about his feelings either.

Besides…

“That conversation is kind of over with now.” Grif reminded Simmons, remembering how Jax had pretty much interrupted that moment of intimacy.

Simmons flinched as if he had been physically struck, his face turning even more red right up to his metallic plating, “I—I know that, Grif! I’ve just been thinking over it and…and you know I freeze when under pressure, and…and…”

Suddenly they weren’t just talking about that _“hate glue”_ comment, but about what had happened when Grif had quit before.

But that had been okay too, because Grif knew he hadn’t exactly been the nicest person then either. They had already laid everything out on the floor about what happened then between them, in one way or another: with words or otherwise.

He nodded mostly for the redhead’s benefit, knowing that this was clearly an important topic to Simmons all the same, “It’s okay, Simmons. What did you need to say?”

Simmons stopped his inner rambling then. He closed his eyes for a brief moment as he took in a deep breath through his artificial lungs. When he turned to look at Grif, with one green eye and the other an artificial red color, he let said breath out and spoke quietly, “What you said isn’t true.”

“Come again?” Grif asked, raising a dark eyebrow in curiosity.

Damn it, this was getting all emotional again. Thank fuck Donut wasn’t around just then.

“It…it isn’t, you know.” Simmons said in practically a whisper, looking down at the helmet he gripped tightly, “I mean…I can’t speak for everyone, obviously. B—but you’re part of the team, and a…a friend.” His face was taking on the hue of a tomato as he turned to look at Grif with a desperate expression clouding over his features, “There’s…there’s more than just hate there, Grif. There’s got to be!”

Grif remained silent, mulling over the cyborg’s words.

Simmons seemed to take that silence as a cue to continue, his voice getting lower and lower as he tried to rush all of the words out in a near panic, “I mean…I—I definitely don’t hate you. At all!” Simmons squeezed his eyes shut, dropping his helmet to the floor as he tried to shakily stand up so that he could make a quick escape from what he no doubt felt was a hopelessly embarrassing situation for the both of them, “Um…so that’s-all-I-wanted-to-say. Gotta-go-bye!”

Grif reached up and grabbed Simmons’ arm before the lankier man could speed away in a frantic cloud of kicked up dust, the expression on his tanned face unreadable as he pulled a stunned Simmons back down onto the bed next to him.

“I know that.” Grif stated calmly a few minutes later, when he was sure that Simmons wasn’t going to try bolting once more, his hand still locked around the maroon-armored lower arm.

“H—huh?” Simmons questioned, blinking at the chubbier man in open-mouthed surprise.

When Grif looked over towards Simmons again, he had the beginning of an oddly fond smile on his face, “That you don’t hate me.”

“Y—you do?” Simmons blinked once more, his eyes wide.

“Why do you think I didn’t fucking mention you when I was talking about everyone else, Simmons?” Grif asked him, inwardly amazed that a geek like Simmons could be so stupid sometimes.

“Um…”

Grif was seriously starting to wonder if maybe even attempting this conversation had somehow broken the poor nerd’s brain. “For the record, I don’t hate you either.” He smirked playfully as he continued, _“At all.”_

Simmons’ face went bright red once more, but he couldn’t keep from rolling his eyes all the same at the fondly mocking tone evident in Grif’s voice, “…Jackass.”

“Oh, come on! You walked right into that one!” Grif informed him jokingly. Still, he smiled all the same, “But thanks for all the other stuff you said too. I guess. If we’re getting sappy here.”

“Oh!” Simmons fidgeted nervously again, looking at the ground once more, “You’re…ah, welcome.”

Grif didn’t even care if it was true or not in the eyes of everyone else. Hearing Simmons say that oh-so-eloquently worded counterargument to his _“hate glue”_ comment made him feel a little bit better about the role he had decided to accept for himself as part of their team.

Though, knowing that Simmons in particular definitely did not hate him was all the icing he needed for a very delicious cake. …Shit, he was hungry now. But, he currently didn’t really want to move from this particular spot either to get food.

The two lapsed into silence, and Grif did not even notice when his hand slid down to rest on top of Simmons’ on the mattress. Simmons did not comment on the sudden turn of events either, the beginnings of a slight smile dimpling his still warm cheeks.

They turned to look into the other’s eyes once again at the same moment. Simmons opened his mouth to speak first, though he seemed rather reluctant to do so, “So, um, we should...”

“Probably, yeah.” Grif replied since he also knew that they should most likely be going despite how he just wanted to continue sitting there with the redhead.

Suddenly, there was a white and blue helmet crammed directly in between their faces, “You guys really need to just kiss and get it over with already! I’ve been recording this out in the hallway for forever!”

…When Dylan Andrews came looking for her young cameraman a few minutes later, she found him lying on the ground once again. A rather red-faced Grif and Simmons were quick to inform her that Jax Jonez just happened to be really, really clumsy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an idea that had been floating around in my head for a missing scene of sorts set during Season 15. :) I hope it was an all right read. Season 15 has given me so many awesome Grimmons feels, I will probably be doing a few more response fics for it too! :D


	27. Late Night Thievery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Simmons and Grif bond over stolen cookies while at boot camp._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~Written for the awesome blankslate101, who gave me the wonderful prompt: “They’re in boot camp trying to break into the cafeteria for Grif’s midnight snack or some other adorable scene. I just really want boot camp bonding!”
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

“I can’t believe that I let you talk me into this.”

Richard “Dick” Simmons’ voice was little more than a hushed, scandalized whisper as he shot the beam of light that he was carrying towards the lock that his companion was currently in the process of picking.

“I don’t recall putting a fucking gun to your head, Simmons.” Dexter Grif replied with a rather patronizing-yet-bored tone. The redhead could practically _hear_ the eye roll in Grif’s voice when the other man spoke up, quelling down his own sense of rising indignation.

“Th—that’s…!” _Besides the point, really._ …Is what Simmons _wanted_ to say, but he found himself biting down on that particular vein of dialogue rather quickly since it veered into territory the maroon-armored soldier was trying to avoid. 

After all, Simmons did not want to vocalize that he had agreed to this break-in of theirs because Grif had grinned like the goddamned sun when, hours ago, he had suggested it as they had finished their patrol. The redhead refused to dwell on the fact that Grif was one of the _only_ positives he had discovered in the hellhole that was their boot camp, and that the idea of the chubby soldier getting caught and punished yet _again_ for stealing food left a tiny, twisted knot of anxiety in Simmons’ stomach.

Simmons did not want to admit that maybe, just _maybe_ Grif was right: that he needed to live a little every once in a while, damn it! The maroon-armored soldier didn’t want to think too much on the fact that in a few weeks’ time they would most likely be shipped off to different parts of the fucking galaxy and would never see each other again. After all, he was already thinking _(no doubt, in his father’s eyes at any rate, way too emotionally)_ of how much being separated from Grif was going to suck.

No, Simmons was definitely not going to say any of those things out loud. He didn’t want to provide the chubbier man with even _more_ fuel for teasing. Simmons also didn’t want to make things even more awkward for himself. A hard feat in and of itself considering how he was already a walking, awkward jumble of nerves and self-esteem issues.

So, instead, Simmons sighed and rolled his green eyes, “Just hurry it up, fat-ass.”

Grif’s brown irises lazily looked up at the redhead just as the door to the mess hall _finally_ opened. Simmons did not want to think of how long they had been standing there in the dark trying to rig the damn thing open. If he did, he’d no doubt have a panic attack about how totally exposed they would have been if someone had come walking by.

“Dude,” Grif said apathetically as he shook his head, “I finished while you were busy stuttering to yourself.”

Simmons felt his face begin to warm in embarrassment, “I, I wasn’t…!” He tried to formulate some kind of defense to the orange-armored soldier’s comment, only for his brain to oh-so-helpfully freeze on him and cause him to stutter even more.

“Uh-huh, sure.” Grif said as he patted Simmons’ shoulder in a patronizing fashion, “Whatever you say, buddy.”

The redhead ground his teeth in annoyance, but Grif didn’t notice as he was already moving stealthily through the mess hall and into the kitchen proper.

As he watched Grif maneuver his way through the area, Simmons couldn’t help but feel somewhat impressed at how easily the heavyset man was managing to move in the dark. It didn’t seem physically possible, but Grif tended to defy the rules of physics where snacks were concerned. If he actually ever bothered applying those skills out on the field, then Grif would be…

“Simmons!” The tan-skinned man abruptly whispered, effectively cutting off Simmons’ rambling thoughts, “Over here!”

Simmons tried not to roll his eyes again at his friend’s frantic motioning as he carefully picked his way to the back of the kitchen. He was sad to admit that his movements were less graceful than Grif’s, but damn it! This whole experience was way out of Simmons’ comfort zone and he really sucked when it came to dealing with stressful situations, so _fuck it_ if he couldn’t move like some stealthily agile food scavenging ninja!

“We need to get going before someone sees us!” Simmons hissed out rather urgently as he approached his partner in crime.

Grif nodded his head in that infuriating way of his, the one that clearly indicated he wasn’t paying much attention at all to what Simmons had just said, “We hit the fucking jackpot!”

Simmons glanced down at the object Grif was gesturing towards, surprised to see a whole _crate_ of what appeared to be boxes of cookies, “You seriously want to steal _all_ of this?”

“Well, yeah,” Grif replied as he grinned again and Simmons couldn’t help but be transfixed once more, “Why do you think I said this was going to be a two-person job?”

Simmons sighed, suddenly feeling the urge to regret _all_ of his life choices.

*****

“We are going to get in a shitload of trouble for this.” Simmons groaned as he sat with his back to the crate that they had just finished stashing away in Grif’s top secret _“napping spot.”_

…Simmons tried to ignore the way his heart sped up slightly at the knowledge that he was the only one besides the orange-armored draftee who knew about the cave overlook. After all, it was probably no big deal to Grif that he had showed him the spot, so why should Simmons really show how touched he was by the display of trust? That would just make things weird.

Grif sat down beside him, already unwrapping a cookie, “Probably.”

Simmons shot him an incredulous look at the admission, “Then why even fucking do it in the first place?”

“Chill, Simmons.” Grif said as he shrugged indifferently, looking towards the stars dotting the sky over the entranceway, “It’s not like it will matter in a few weeks anyways, right?”

“Oh.” Simmons frowned and looked at the dirt on the cave floor, “Right.”

Damn Grif for bringing up a touchy topic that he had been trying _not_ to think about. Leaving their sucky boot camp was going to suck that much more, but Simmons didn’t want to dwell on it. He quickly busied himself by playing with some of the smaller rocks on the ground to avoid delving too deeply into _“feelings”_ territory.

“But, seriously, I wouldn’t have been able to have scored such a big haul without you.” Grif noted a few moments later, “Thanks, man.”

Simmons glanced up, surprised at the words. But, the redhead didn’t make eye contact with Grif seeing as how the chubby man’s eyes glanced off to the side as if actively avoiding Simmons’ gaze. The tan-skinned man was happily munching away on one of the cookies they had just _“liberated”_ from the mess hall, as if he hadn’t said a word.

The maroon-armored soldier smiled shakily at the unexpected praise all the same, willing himself not to cry again. “Th—thanks, Grif. I—” he began, looking away quickly himself without finishing his thought.

“Simmons.”

Simmons turned his head questioningly towards Grif again, opening his mouth to ask him what was up when suddenly a chocolate chip cookie was crammed into his face.

Grif watched him chew and struggle to swallow the baked good down with a satisfied, almost fond smile on his face.

“Doesn’t it taste better when it is hard-fought and earned?” He asked him in a pseudo-sage way that was totally mocking Simmons’ kiss-ass tendencies.

Simmons glared at the chubby man as he swallowed the last few cookie crumbs, though the slight smile on his face that matched Grif’s own betrayed him. Neither man chose to comment on the noticeable red tinge blossoming across their faces in the dark.

…For once, Simmons found that he couldn’t really argue with Grif’s sentiment. He didn’t regret this moment at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this story was adorable enough for you, blankslate101! :D Hopefully, I will get your other prompt ideas written out sometime in the near future too. :) This was a fun story to help get back into the swing of writing again following the hectic craziness of my trip earlier. Next update should be a new chapter for _Specials_ , so I hope people will look forward to it! :D


	28. Do Nothing Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Carolina asks Grif for relationship advice. Misunderstandings ensue._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~Washalina  
> ~Sarge x Grey
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~Be forewarned of copious amounts of handholding and extreme fluff (seriously, this one will most likely require an immediate dental visit after reading! XD).  
> ~Story idea and some lines of dialogue are credited to my awesome sis and beta, Breyzy! :D  
> ~Set after Season 15.
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

When Dexter Grif had fantasized about simply sitting around and doing nothing with a certain redhead, the person he envisioned sitting crisscross in front of him had most fervently _not_ been Agent Carolina, badass Freelancer extraordinaire herself.

The heavyset man sighed, trying his hardest to do so in a way that would not result in his companion catching wind of the disappointed gesture and subsequently kicking his ass over it. To be fair, some of his disappointment was due to the fact that earlier today Kai had shown up at his apartment.

_Well, it was half his, given that he had oh-so-wonderfully_ “convinced” _Simmons it would be a_ “total pain in the ass, but he’d make do” _with sharing the Chorus residential space with his teammate back when it had been discovered that the temporary living arrangements Kimball had generously provided the Reds and Blues with were short a room due to his little sister’s surprise appearance._

_…It had been a brilliant bit of theater on his part, acting like he was doing Simmons a favor by rooming with him. The truth was, Grif wasn’t really keen on trying to sleep by his lonesome anymore after the moon and many sleepless nights spent alone talking to volleyballs. Grif certainly didn’t mind sharing space again with_ Simmons _in particular._

_But, surprisingly, it hadn’t been Kaikaina Grif’s big bro that the yellow-armored girl had been intent to drag out of bed at the ass crack of dawn. Although, now that he thought about it, it made a lot of fucking sense that Kai hadn’t tried to wake him up since Grif had raised her well enough to know the futility behind such an endeavor._

_No, much to an amused eyebrow raise from Grif and the blushing babble of incoherent sputtering from his maroon-wearing teammate/friend/something-more-that-he’d-really-like-to-just-admit-to-already-but-was-still-stupidly-holding-back-on, it had been_ Simmons _that Kai had come to grab by the cybernetic arm as she forcefully dragged him from the apartment. Kai shouted something about how it was high time she took the flustered nerdy_ “in-law” _on a shopping spree now that Chorus had something of a working economy again._

_Her comment had been met with a high-pitched,_ “C—come again?” _from Simmons out in the hallway, with Kai promptly shouting,_ “That’s what she said last night, bitch!” _in response._

_Tucker had been laughing his ass off from the doorway to his own apartment just as Donut and Caboose clamored loudly about, obviously wanting to go along with the duo. Grif was pretty certain that Lopez had muttered something about how he should have turned his ears off earlier that day before the robot essentially slammed his door shut by smacking his hand as hard and as loud as he could against the control panel._

_Looking in the hallway as Kai manhandled Simmons out of the building, Grif assumed that right about then Sarge was no doubt already back to trying to, as he worded it,_ “woo” _Doctor Grey at the hospital. Or, as Grif liked to think about it, Sarge was providing him yet another reason to bleach his brain in the future. It was more than likely that Doc and a recently medically cleared Carolina had already gone along with the older soldier._

_After all, Washington still hadn’t been released yet from the hospital due to his gunshot injury and Doc was trying his hardest to make amends for what had happened at Temple’s underwater lair by serving as an assistant of sorts to Doctor Grey in regards to the steel and yellow-armored Freelancer’s recovery. …Not that Doc’s assistance probably did much, but Grif assumed it was a case of it was the thought that counted or some other shit._

_As for Carolina? Well, according to Sarge, she’d just stomp over to the door to Washington’s hospital room every morning like clockwork before proceeding to glare at the object as though the door had personally affronted her by having the audacity to exist. This ritual would last for a little over an hour before the redhead stalked off in a frustrated heap of tensed up limbs. Sometimes she would even join Sarge and Doctor Grey for extra pudding in the cafeteria._

_The pudding portion of the equation was by far the most disconcerting note of the whole story for Grif. He hadn’t even been completely sure that scary Freelancers had ever known the intricate joys and delicacies of pudding._

_So, much as he lamented how his plans for hanging out with a certain someone and doing absolutely nothing were ruined by his sister’s spontaneous and frequent insistence on jumping the gun way too quickly when it came to her conclusions, Grif took the turn of events in stride like a champ and shrugged once before falling back asleep under his comfy, luxurious covers to dream some more._

_After all, despite what Kai and the others often said, he and Simmons were not in fact_ married _. Not yet, at any rate, but he was slowly, real casual-like, working up the nerve to broach that subject to Simmons like a true maverick. You know, right after Grif oh-so-casually mentioned that they’d totally been dating for a while now without officially having ever said so first. The chubby man imagined saying it real smoothly, in a friend-buddy-teammate sort-of way. Of course, this would be right before he explained to the nerd that the two of them might as well just make the whole damn thing even more official just for the hell of it. After all, there was the potential for a free party afterwards, so why the hell not?_

_When he had woken up quite a few hours later, Grif had his typical several helpings of breakfast and lunch. He even rather begrudgingly ate some fruit along with the meal just because Simmons was always trying to get him to at least eat_ something _healthy. The maroon-armored soldier had somehow developed a freaky sixth sense sort of deal in which he seemed to know what Grif had eaten, even when he wasn’t around to see it. Grif only ever rolled his eyes about the whole thing, but inwardly he was secretly touched that Simmons cared at all._

_After the meal, Grif went out to a field on the outskirts of the city, the very one that he had loudly proclaimed a_ “prime relaxing spot” _weeks before. He had been well on his way to blissful napping against the trunk of a tree when heavy footfalls alerted him to Carolina’s presence._

…So, that explained how he was now in his current predicament. Still sitting cross-legged and leaning against the tree that he had picked out as his favorite resting tree, Grif opened one of his eyes. It was the green one that he had gotten from Simmons so long ago, the one whose twin was framed in a pale, freckled, and metallic face that Grif still found himself staring a bit too long at if he wasn’t careful. The opened pupil spotted a very tense woman in cyan clothing making a facial expression that was the absolute perfect mixture of both consternation and constipation. He would have laughed had he not feared Carolina so.

Fuck. She sucked at this more than Simmons had back when he had first tried to slack off. _That_ was truly saying something considering the constant ball of nerves and anxieties that the cyborg always carried around with him. Grif’s mouth twitched slightly in fond remembrance of the first nap he had ever convinced Simmons to take with him.

Really, that was the problem with _both_ redheads: they were often _trying_ way too hard.

“Like I told you before, Carolina,” Grif stated in his pseudo-sage voice that he especially loved using with Simmons since the nerd usually couldn’t stop from rolling his eyes in response, “The ultimate goal of relaxation is to sit back and do _nothing_.”

“Right. I know.” She said as she gritted her teeth and wiped a bead of sweat off her face with the back of her hand, “I’m _trying_.”

“And that is why you fail.”

Carolina _did_ , in fact, relax at that comment, if only to send a wry look the chubby man’s way: “You are seriously enjoying this way too much.”

Grif shrugged indifferently in response, not wanting to say more for fear that he’d accidentally provoke her into breaking his arm or something. “You’re doing better though. By simply dealing with things in the moment at least.” He tried complimenting her instead with that hippie garbage self-help gurus tended to spout.

“Uh-huh.” The look Carolina was shooting his way was one of pure incredulousness, but at least her shoulders had stopped tensing up so much.

The silence ticked by and Grif figured that it would continue as Carolina contemplatively took in their surroundings. He could almost feel her trying, which defeated the purpose but seemed to suit her style. He closed his eyes again, thinking that maybe she was a _“losing herself in nature”_ type after all.

“So…” Carolina spoke up awkwardly but in what seemed to be an attempt at _“casual conversation”_ not a moment later, “Where’s Simmons?”

Grif opened both of his eyes at the sudden question, noticing Carolina looking away from him and strumming her fingers against the fabric covering her knee. Man, she couldn’t even stay relaxed when attempting a normal conversation. Grif almost pitied her, but then remembered she’d probably seriously hurt him for even thinking such a thing.

“Kai took him shopping.”

“Why?” Carolina asked as her green eyes snapped over to him, evidently genuinely curious about what had occurred.

Grif shrugged indifferently, “She has it in her head that he’s her new brother-in-law. Figured they should go out and do some bonding shit.”

Carolina’s eyes widened minutely in shock, “He is?” She questioned, straightening slightly and letting out a slight, awkward sort-of cough, “I hadn’t realized that the two of you had already—”

“We aren’t.” Grif cut Carolina off before she started trying to apologize for not yet having bought them a toaster or a set of fancy dinner plates from wherever the hell they might have been registered _(not that he really would have minded free stuff)_ as he ignored the _“yet”_ his brain oh-so-helpfully _(hopefully?)_ supplied at the end of his statement, “Kai’s just jumping the gun again.”

Carolina appeared to relax at his statement, and Grif felt a sudden stab of something altogether _unpleasant_ in his chest. He wanted to blame the damn fruit he ate for breakfast. Had Carolina been asking about _his_ Simmons because…?

“Uh, no offense, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” He heard himself blurting out before he could really think to stop himself.

After all, Simmons definitely deserved someone better than he was, so who was Grif to try and stop it if Carolina was interested? There was no way that Simmons felt the same as he did, but the possibility just _broke_ him and made him feel desperate. It was the fucking moon all over again.

“What?” Carolina looked up at the orange-armored soldier sharply, confusion written plainly all over her features.

Grif, suddenly panicked, continued talking quickly, “You’d totally break him. Like _physically_ break him.” He continued to babble on, “I’m actually pretty sure you’d break most of us, but you’d _definitely_ break Simmons.”

Understanding blossomed on her face as Carolina actually _pouted_ , “Offense,” she muttered, clearly annoyed, “And, no, I wouldn’t.”

Grif raised a dark eyebrow and Carolina seemed to take a moment to recall the nerdy, lanky maroon-armored man in particular.

“Okay, fair point.” Her shoulders sagged, but despite the gesture she fixed him with a clear look, “Besides, I wasn’t asking because of that.”

Grif felt the sudden spike of anxiety he had been feeling at this turn in the conversation quickly deplete, sweet relief replacing it instead, “You weren’t?”

“No.” She smirked as she spoke, “Trust me, Grif. I wouldn’t be stupid enough to try to get in-between the two of you.”

His relief started to go to war with an odd sense of flustered embarrassment, “Like I said, it’s not like we’re—”

“Not yet.” Carolina’s smirk widened, a knowing glint surfacing in her green eyes, “But it’s going to happen. Sooner rather than later. I’d place money on it.”

The dark-haired man couldn’t help but smirk just then, decidedly ignoring the odd warmth on his tanned cheeks, “You’d have to join Tucker’s betting pool.”

“Who’s to say I haven’t?” Carolina was quick to shoot back, clearly enjoying the playful conversation.

Grif couldn’t help but give her a slight bow for that one, though that still left him with a nagging sort-of curiosity in his gut about how this whole discussion had come about in the first place. He frowned thoughtfully, “Why were you asking about Simmons then?”

For a brief moment, Carolina’s face actually _reddened_ as she suddenly found the blades of grass tickling the legs of her pants absolutely fascinating, “The two of you are always together, and you just recently got through some very heavy, _very serious_ things.”

Grif nodded. That was actually fairly true. He and Simmons were wonderfully, even blissfully closer now than before thanks to recent events, but Grif knew they still had a long ways to go. He was just content to be around Simmons for the time being so long as Simmons would let him continue to do so.

“I just…” Carolina sighed, her words quickly tumbling out of her mouth in a rather hesitant, unsure manner, “How do you do that? Be together, I mean?”

Ah, so that was it. The root of her query. Understanding began to creep up on Grif and he smirked once again. She was asking him for _relationship advice_.

Well, as much as he might want to tell her that she probably should have picked someone else for that sort of thing, he wasn’t about to leave a friend hanging, especially a pupil in the art of relaxation.

“Well, for starters, I’d probably go into his fucking room and talk with him.” Grif informed her matter-of-factly.

Carolina nodded, her face still a slight red. She didn’t even question Grif on how he had known that she had been referring to her situation with a certain other Freelancer, so he must have guessed correctly. Yes, indeed. Grif might be far from an expert in this particular field himself, but he was still _definitely_ kicking it as a teacher all the same.

So, he continued the lesson: “Maybe you should try throwing in an insult at first. Just to break the ice, you know?”

*****

Sometime later, after Carolina had thanked him for the advice and left, Grif was by himself once more. He leaned back against his favorite relaxing tree and dozed off.

_“There you are!”_

Grif opened his eyes at the sound of Simmons’ high-pitched exclamation, an oddly happy feeling slamming into his gut _(damn fruit!)_ that he tried quashing down as quickly as it came when he saw the relieved, rather jubilant look the cyborg had plastered all over his face at the simple prospect of having found him.

“Here I am.” Grif finally managed to get out, patting the ground next to him as a sign that Simmons should take up his customary spot, “How did bonding with Kai go?”

Simmons sighed as he plopped down heavily by Grif’s shoulder, “I pretty much passed out on my feet once Donut got involved.”

He could just imagine that. Kai and Donut’s shopping sprees had been the things of legend even way back in Blood Gulch with woefully out-of-date catalogs and shitty wireless connections.

Simmons smiled tiredly all the same, an oddly distinct blush forming on the still flesh-and-blood portions of his freckled face, “Right now, all I really want to do is just sit back and do nothing.”

Saying that, and probably in a totally subconscious way that Simmons wasn’t aware of so Grif probably shouldn’t dwell on it too much either because it probably meant nothing and he really shouldn’t be getting his hopes up, the redhead rested his head on Grif’s shoulder.

The cyborg closed his eyes contentedly with the motion as the redness on his face intensified quite a bit as his hand rested warmly on top of Grif’s in a way that was probably completely accidental. Simmons probably just didn’t have the energy to move it away.

Grif let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he had been holding until then, adjusting his body’s positioning so that he and Simmons were leaning comfortably against one another. The weight of Simmons’ hand pressing down on his own felt peacefully secure in a way, and he braved moving to lace their fingers together. He felt slightly giddy when Simmons did not pull away.

“That can definitely be arranged.” Grif murmured, smiling fondly into Simmons’ red hair as he did so.

*****

Meanwhile, Carolina had finally worked up the nerve to stop glaring holes through Washington’s hospital room door and actually step through it.

She stood by the blond’s bed awkwardly as a tumultuous mixture of feelings waged war inside of her. The redhead thought of that moment well before all of _this_.

_Back on the beach, Washington’s hand gripping her gauntleted one around York’s lighter reassuringly…_

Just as she found herself subconsciously reaching out for Washington’s hand that rested on the too pale and sterile hospital sheets in front of her, his gray eyes opened and zeroed in on the only other person in the room with him.

_“Carolina.”_

His voice was raspy, but oddly happy-sounding. She was reminded yet again of how extremely fortunate he was in the first place to be able to still talk at all. Washington smiled faintly, and reached for her hand.

Carolina _froze_ , completely unsure of what to do in this situation now that it was presented to her. This was the exact reason she hadn’t been able to step inside this hospital room before now, damn it!

But then, Grif’s sound advice from before came rushing back to her ears.

She gripped Washington’s hand tightly first in a shaky, tentative grip of her own, smiling right down back at him, “Hey, dumbass. Just how long do you plan on lying around here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize so, so much for having not updated anything for a while. Real life got really hectic _(but in a good, fun way! :D)_ , I’ve been dealing with job drama _(not so much fun XD)_ , and then I ended up getting sick on top of all of that _(also not too much fun XD)_. This week is also really stressful and time sensitive for my beta, who I am gifting this fic too as hopefully a fun momentary reprieve from studying and work but who won’t be able to beta much else for me until after this weekend is over with.
> 
> But, such is life sometimes, yes? :) Sorry about the wait, and I hope that upcoming updates will make up for that in some small way as all my WIPs get underway. Hopefully I’ll be able to share a few more one shots with you too! :D
> 
> As always, thank you for reading this. I really hope it isn’t too terribly rusty or anything like that. :D Everyone needs a good dose of romantic handholding and fluffy, fluffy cavity-inducing sweetness from time to time! XD See you again soon! :D


	29. Hard to Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They both agreed to not talk about what happened in the storage closet, but emotions make keeping that promise difficult. Also, Grif keeps stealing Simmons’ blankets._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
>  **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~This story was inspired by the awesome blankslate101, who asked me about my take on the infamous “storage closet” moment mentioned in Season 15. :D Many more talented and amazing writers than I have already written their excellent takes on what happened, so I hope that this attempt by me isn’t too terrible. XD  
> ~Angst _and_ fluff abound!  
>  ~Written for the 15kinks comm on Dreamwidth. The prompt was “Libra: #1 Comfort Sex.”  
> ~Spoilers for the Temple of Procreation plot point from Season 15, and the final section of the story is set directly after the events of Season 15.
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

As the soft lighting flickered to life overhead, Richard “Dick” Simmons’ eyebrows twitched slightly in annoyance at the sight that greeted his adjusting vision.

In the rather large storage closet before him, originally a room soldiers used to sleep in before the population of Chorus had drastically dwindled he had once been told by overenthusiastic history buff Andersmith, was an item that most certainly did not belong there anymore.

The mattress that someone had most definitely, rather painstakingly, dragged up here was both beckoning and mocking him. He regretted not having his helmet on as everyone on Chorus was donning civilian clothes for the first time in what felt like forever, as at least he would have had the scent filtered out first instead of being blasted by it.

Gritting his teeth, the redhead stepped further inside the space until he was looming over the very conspicuous artifact. Absentmindedly, he placed the datapad that he’d been planning on using for inventory purposes on one of the shelves of boxed items close by. Mentally, he was already noting that _“mattress”_ wasn’t on the inventory list.

Yes, upon closer inspection it was most definitely a mattress and not a very big rectangle-shaped box that someone had taken great pains to drag here and place at the very back of the storage closet. He glanced at the crumpled pillow and assortment of far too familiar military surplus blankets that adorned the offending mattress haphazardly. The sight was far too familiar because he recognized the tear in the corner of one of the blankets. Simmons had made it himself in the throes of a far too often recurring nightmare he had been experiencing while on Chorus.

…Which meant that those were the very same blankets and pillow that he had reported missing from his own sleeping quarters several weeks ago. The very same ones that Jensen and the rest of his squad had so kindly and touchingly pooled their own limited resources together to help him replace. Damn it, he wasn’t going to cry over that memory yet _again_! Five times was more than enough!

Simmons had most certainly not expected this when he had slipped awkwardly away from the celebrations that had been happening all over Chorus in light of the fighting _finally_ being over. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the need for partying, especially now that most of the injured people from the last big conflict were discharged from the hospital.

He had just wanted the chance to escape and give his horribly awkward self a chance to breathe and relax away from the gushing accolades and throngs of people closing in from all sides. What better way to do that than by picking a storage closet at random and falling into the good old fashioned thought clearing process of categorizing and inventorying? Clearly, there was no better way. It had gotten Simmons through many a high school and college party, after all.

The usually maroon-armored soldier had been doubly motivated to escape from the celebrations when Tucker had slinked away from the partying himself, grinning and loudly declaring that he had something in mind that would _“really kick things up a notch.”_ Yeah, Simmons really didn’t want to touch whatever Tucker had in mind with a ten-meter pole.

But here Simmons was now, standing in his randomly picked _(for the fun of it, mind you! Randomizing choices when it came to inventory helped add a bit more excitement and mystery to the whole process! He was such a Chaotic Good it was scary)_ storage closet, staring at items that most certainly did _not_ belong there. Only one single thought came to mind at the sight.

“…Fucking _Grif_.” Simmons muttered under his breath, having absolutely no doubt in the back of his mind who the culprit of this mess was.

“Whoa there, Simmons. I just got here.” An all too familiar and rather smug-sounding voice stated from behind the cyborg, “Maybe give me a minute first?”

The still flesh and blood portions of Simmons’ face heated up all the way to the metallic plating, and he spun around quickly to find Dexter Grif standing in the open doorway. No, more like _leaning_ against it with a smirk plastered all over his tan face. Looked like he had chosen to leave his helmet that he had still been wearing to try and snooze through another of Sarge’s stories without anyone noticing at the party too.

“D—damn it, Grif! Don’t do that!” The cybernetic equivalent that Simmons had to a heart was thudding loudly in his chest at the sudden intrusion, “What…what are you doing here?” His green eyes narrowed as he motioned towards the mattress, “Trying to sneak in another nap?”

Grif didn’t even bat an eye at his teammate’s accusatory tone, which only further confirmed Simmons’ suspicions, as he replied: “You weren’t at the party anymore, so I figured you were off doing something nerdy and, lo and behold, I was right.”

Simmons puffed up his chest in indignation, “Doing inventory is vitally important in order to maintain—!”

“The more you keep talking, the more you keep proving my point, you know.” Grif’s grin widened before his eyes landed longingly on the mattress and blankets behind Simmons, “But now that you mentioned a nap…”

Simmons’ eyes widened in horror at the implication of that trailed off sentence. There was no way he’d be able to get any work done in here if Grif was snoring away!

“Don’t you dare, Grif!” He warned, taking a step forward as if to try and push the heavyset man back.

But, he was too late. Grif stepped into the space at the same moment, the door closing behind him. Following that, there was the telltale sound of a…

Simmons squinted in the direction of the door, “Was that a…a _lock_ activating just now?”

Grif raised a dark eyebrow disinterestedly as he also turned to look at the storage closet door behind him, “Hmm? Oh, yeah. It was.”

“B—but the closets here only lock from the outside!” Simmons protested, his tone urgent as he tried to convey to Grif exactly what that meant.

His normally orange-armored friend shrugged indifferently, “Yeah, that’s what makes this the perfect place to sneak in a nap, you see?” Grif grinned again and moved past Simmons to sit on top of the mattress, “No one would suspect someone of willingly locking themselves away like that, especially for the four hours I’ve got programmed into the lock.”

“F—four hours?” Simmons gaped, his shoulders slumping in defeat. His carefully planned categorizing and inventory checking, ruined…!

Grif patted the spot next to him lazily on the mattress, nodding, “Yep, so you might as well make yourself comfy.”

It unnerved Simmons how completely nonplussed Grif was in this situation, but he reluctantly complied and sagged down heavily onto the mattress by his side. He pointedly ignored the triumphant look that crossed over Grif’s features.

They remained sitting like that, with Simmons pouting and Grif humming a song contentedly to himself for several moments, until a sudden thought entered into Simmons’ mind and refused to vacate.

“Hold on.” He finally spoke up, turning his head to regard Grif in open disbelief, “You willingly left a party to go and find me?”

Grif stilled slightly, nodding his head, “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“One that had free food _and_ booze?”

“Don’t make it weird, Simmons.” Grif made a face at the maroon-wearing man’s incredulity-laced statement, and Simmons could swear that his cheeks darkened slightly in a blush as the patches of what used to be his own far too pale and freckled skin on Grif’s face had turned noticeably redder too.

Now that he thought about it, Grif had been hovering around in his vicinity a lot more than what was usual even for the two of them. Had been ever since he had insisted on dragging a wounded Simmons away from the _Staff of Charon_. He had been shot in the arm and thrown back into a wall during the firefight, cracking a few ribs and cybernetic parts in the process. His recovery had been slow, but he was feeling fine now.

The truth was, Simmons had just been so preoccupied with recovery and all of the victory talk afterwards, along with the mourning for Epsilon and everyone else who had been lost during the war, that he hadn’t even realized how much Grif had been hanging around before then…

The cyborg opened his mouth to say something, his own face rather red, but then decided against it. He had no idea what to say about that, really. There were a lot of things like that between the two of them, now.

So, instead, Simmons’ brain tried to helpfully supply him with what would undoubtedly be a much safer topic to discuss. “So,” he started shakily, running a hand over the edge of one of his pilfered blankets, “Why did you decide to steal my things for your napping spot?”

He expected Grif to give him one of his customary _didn’t give a fuck_ or _because it was easy_ responses. It was odd that Grif had found a shelf corner on the other side of the closet incredibly fascinating instead.

“Your stuff…smells _nice_ , okay?” Grif finally mumbled out as if admitting to some deep, dark secret and maybe, to him, it _was_ , “It helps me sleep.”

“Oh.” Simmons was fairly certain that both his brain _and_ cybernetic equivalent of a heart had stopped working then.

“I’m taking a nap.” Grif suddenly declared into the heavy tension now filling the air thickly between them. The tan-skinned man instantly laid down on the mattress as close to the wall as was physically possible for his larger frame, his back to Simmons.

Simmons gulped and shakily nodded his head before adopting a similar position on the mattress with his own back to Grif, “M—me too.”

The light flickered off above their heads a few minutes later due to its automated timer, plunging them into sudden darkness. But, neither man chose to comment on it.

*****

When Simmons woke up later, it was to the very distinct and strong sensation that something he couldn’t quite place was very, very _off_.

His entire body felt clammy and hot all at once, as if his insides were melting. His brain was an unhelpful garble of mushiness, and all that he got from it was the distinct sense of urgency that he needed to react, to respond…

To the pair of lips that were pressed hungrily against his own only about a minute after he had woken up, to the fingers that were currently burning his skin wherever they touched, the heavy body that had rolled on top of his to effectively hold him in place.

He knew it was _Grif_. He recognized the orange-wearing man’s scent and familiar, normally comforting weight. Simmons knew that warmth that he was always afraid to reach out towards, but could usually always sense close by. _Grif_ was the one who was currently leaving a trail of liquid fire running against his skin whenever he made contact, who was so hungrily devouring him…

Simmons responded to the kisses just as desperately, just as earnestly—his own fingers finding purchase on whatever part of Grif’s sweaty flesh he could touch.

His head cleared a little, but not quite…and he almost cried out when Grif pulled away hesitatingly a second later as if the same thing had happened to him.

“S—Simmons…” Grif’s voice was throaty and needy in a way that Simmons hadn’t even heard before in his many, many dreams of this moment.

It was enough to put him over the edge again and give into the sudden, intense need that was filling up his very being. The redhead whined, the noise causing Grif’s eyes to darken once more with an all-consuming desire that seemed to override his temporary state of confusion.

“D—don’t fucking stop…!” Simmons heard himself frantically begging, and he reached up with his arms to wrap them around Grif’s neck tightly to pull the other man down on top of him once more, “Grif…!”

He arched his hips up to make contact again between the two of them, and Grif complied with the motion just as readily. Heat pooled in Simmons’ stomach, and he stifled another moan by kissing Grif frantically on the mouth.

It was a muddled mess of heat and passion, long repressed emotions brought bubbling to the surface by a sudden frenzy neither of them would understand until later, much rougher than either really cared for. But, at that exact moment, neither Grif nor Simmons particularly cared.

*****

The aftermath was when things became heavy, tense, and so much more awkward between two men who, under normal circumstances, wouldn’t have probably yet acted so intensely to their pent-up emotions for the other.

Simmons shivered under the weight of the blankets on his bare skin. His before feverish body was now uncomfortably cold, sticky and sweat-soaked as it was.

Grif was lying next to him, just as naked under the blankets. Simmons’ back was to him, but he could feel the chubbier man’s body heat against him all the same since there was only a mere centimeter or two of space between them. Grif’s hot breath hit the back of his neck and he shivered even more.

“Let’s…let’s just not talk about it.” The tan-skinned man finally said after staring at Simmons in silence for a long while, “Deal?”

Simmons could only shakily nod his head in response, not trusting his voice any longer after all of the noises he had heard escape it earlier.

His eyes glanced down to one of the numerous hickey marks that Grif had left on his arm before he reluctantly tore his gaze away into the darkness.

Behind him, Grif shifted, closer still but not yet daring to reach out over the invisible barrier they had made just then for themselves. His arm was raised over the blankets as if he had planned to either touch Simmons’ shoulder reassuringly or pull him flush against his body again in a sort-of backwards embrace, but he seemingly decided against it and lowered his arm once more.

The absence of contact, of feeling Grif’s warmth completely as he still desperately craved it, caused Simmons to curl in on himself and shudder even more.

*****

Simmons stared at the evidence for a few more minutes, his brain trying to process just what it was that he was seeing. He took several steps further into the room, hand already reaching out to grasp onto the familiar-looking maroon fabric lying on top of the otherwise orange-covered bed.

The second pillow, also covered in maroon, was no doubt his too.

He grit his teeth in frustration even though a part of him was secretly relieved this scene wasn’t replaying itself out in a storage closet somewhere. He took in a shaky breath, trying to dispel that thought from his mind. They had agreed to not talk about it, after all. No reason for his mind to constantly go there.

But, still, for his missing blankets to show up _here_ of all places…

“Fucking _Grif_.” He muttered under his breath.

They had only been back on Chorus for about a week now following the events with Temple and the other Blues and Reds, and he was already missing stuff. Simmons hardly felt comfortable asking a very busy President Kimball for more supplies after she had already generously set them up with temporary quarters while Washington and Carolina were still recovering. Apparently the two were both driving Doctor Grey through the roof by wheelchair racing in order to keep up _some_ semblance of training.

So, following Tucker and Kaikaina heading out on a _“Blue Team only…so suck it, bitches!”_ mission with Caboose to visit the two Freelancers, Donut asking Doc to give him and Lopez _(who did not seem all that interested, truth be told)_ advice on the ideal spots for outdoor yoga, and Sarge continuing his efforts to try to figure out where Locus went after dropping Washington off here on Chorus with some eager help from the lieutenants in order to help _“well and truly balance the team dynamics” (whatever the hell that meant)_ …Simmons had snuck over to the room of the most likely culprit of the missing items.

Well, he supposed it wasn’t really _“sneaking in”_ when he had been given the access code and invited over whenever he wanted, but still! Simmons had assumed that whenever he did so, the room’s occupant would also be present.

A thought that said person also seemed to share, if the sudden cough in the open doorway to get his attention just then was any indication.

Simmons spun around, frozen like a deer caught in a pair of headlights at the amused smirk playing across Grif’s face.

The orange-wearing soldier was leaning against the doorframe in a gesture that was painfully familiar to Simmons, his chest contracting sharply at the sudden onslaught of memory, “You know, when I gave you that code, I was sort of hoping you’d use it to come and hang out _with_ me, Simmons.” Grif joked, “Not sneak in here to get a quick nap for yourself.”

“I—I wasn’t…!” Simmons spluttered, his brain short-circuiting, “I’m not _you_ , Grif!”

“Uh-huh.” If anything, the cyborg’s denial only seemed to amuse the heavyset man more as he strode into the bedroom with his eyes focused solely on Simmons, “So, what exactly _did_ bring you here then?”

Behind Grif, the door closed and, for a split second, Simmons panicked when he imagined the sound of a lock activating. But, it passed just as quickly as it came.

His green eyes lit up in indignation when he looked at Grif’s face, ignoring the contradictory impulse he always got to run his hands over the slowly fading bruises there to make sure for himself that they were properly healing.

“You…you stole my blankets and pillow, Grif!” Simmons managed to squeak out while only feeling a bit childish at the accusation, gesturing over to the articles in question, “Again!”

An almost sheepish, guilty look crossed over Grif’s features momentarily at having been caught once more. His face darkened slightly, in that way that Simmons had come to associate with blushing thanks to the sudden pink on his paler skin patches that would accompany it, “Oh, yeah. I guess I did do that.”

Simmons gaped as Grif moved past him to sit on the bed, his hand tightening around a fistful of maroon blanket subconsciously as he did so, no longer looking Simmons’ way at all.

The cyborg shook his head, “I don’t get it.” He finally began, “Why…?”

“It’s the smell.” Grif told him absentmindedly.

He blinked. He’d said that before, hadn’t he? Something about how Simmons’ things smelled _nice_ , and how that helped him to sleep. Right before they had…

Simmons coughed awkwardly, trying to hide the rapidly growing blush on his own face just then, “I…ah, can lend you my detergent…”

Grif resolutely shook his head, still not looking at Simmons, “It’s not that.”

“Wha…?”

Grif shuddered and finally turned to face his teammate, an unreadable look on his features that caused Simmons’ breath to freeze, “It’s _you_ , okay?” He let out roughly, “They fucking smell like you and that helps me sleep.”

Oh. Oh. _Oh._

Simmons’ cybernetic heart was pounding loudly in his ears now, and he took a seat next to Grif on the bed because his knees suddenly felt very weak. He opened his mouth, paused, and tried again with the same result.

Grif watched him earnestly, hopefully, but also defensively in a way that made Simmons’ whole being positively ache.

The normally maroon-armored soldier grasped at the first thing that came to mind, the one thing they had both agreed with one another to _never_ talk about, “Back th—then too?”

It was vague as all fuck, but he knew that Grif had understood the question when he saw his dark eyes go wide in surprise before he slowly nodded in response.

They were sitting side-by-side on Grif’s bed, shoulders nearly touching, and Grif’s free hand was twitching as if he was fighting the urge to reach across the miniscule distance and _touch_ Simmons.

Simmons swallowed nervously, still having a hard time processing how anyone could think of him in that way, “So then, why…?”

“We don’t have to talk about it, Simmons.” Grif said quietly, looking away again as if he was in pain, “Let’s…let’s just not talk about it. Deal?”

The words from _before_ felt like a physical blow to Simmons, and he winced. Grif continued talking, not having noticed Simmons’ reaction due to his eyes being fixated elsewhere in the room currently.

“I just…I was lonely, once I realized I’d made a mistake on the moon. I missed all of you. I missed _you_ and…”

Grif cut off his nervous, distracting ramble when Simmons reached over that ever so small space between them and pressed his hand into his own. Grif looked down in bewilderment at the gesture before his eyes went to Simmons’, desperate and searching.

“I’m glad you came back, Grif.” Simmons echoed a variation of the words he had used when Grif had been trying to say that everyone hated him. It had been Simmons’ awkward way of trying to convey how that wasn’t true, how he had _never_ hated Grif, but it had been as hopelessly clumsy and awkward when it came out as he himself was, “I should have stayed. I really missed you too and…”

Simmons saw the disbelieving expression on Grif’s face and, his own face becoming intolerably hot at the very notion that crossed his mind then, figured _“to hell with it.”_ Clearly, they both sucked with words anyways, right?

So, even though Simmons’ brain was screaming at him that he was an idiot and that he was probably totally misinterpreting things because there was no fucking way someone like Grif would _ever_ like a screw-up like him, he closed the gap between them and pressed his lips against his.

It took a long moment for Grif to react at all, but just as Simmons was about to pull away from the other man with a rambling apology, already tensing his legs for a panicked run out of the room, suddenly Grif was kissing him back with an intensity that was rare to see coming from the chubby man.

Tan hands wound their way around Simmons’ hips just as surely as Simmons’ wrapped around Grif’s neck as Grif deepened the kiss. Dimly, Simmons was aware of Grif guiding him down onto his back on the mattress below them, his heart hammering loudly at the images that were coming to mind once more with what they were doing.

Grif paused when he felt Simmons’ body suddenly stiffen underneath him, “Do you want to stop…?” He asked in concern.

Simmons closed his eyes and shook his head, unweaving one hand from where it had become entangled in Grif’s dark hair to reassuringly touch his face. He felt warm all over, but not unbearably so this time.

Grif grinned in response to the smile that Simmons gave him, pressing kisses into Simmons’ neck. Simmons moaned, raising his hips up underneath Grif to increase the contact.

It was heated and desperate, a very needy passion shared by both men, but things were more gentle and considerate this time, more deliberate and thought-out. Every gesture and moment bringing a sense of comfort and reassurance with it.

When it was over this time, with Grif and Simmons both spent, there was no lingering awkwardness or sense of wrongness in the air, of something having occurred when they had not quite yet been ready for the leap.

Simmons felt content, peaceful, the warmth radiating off of Grif heating even his usually always cool metallic components as Grif wrapped an arm around him and pulled him as close to his body as possible.

The breath on Simmons’ neck was a constant, relaxing note that fell into rhythm with Grif’s steadying heartbeat against his back.

There were still about a million different things that would be hard to talk about between the two of them, Simmons knew. There always were. But, the maroon-wearing man also knew from this point on they would both do their best to stick it out. Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … I seriously debated about deleting this whole thing once I realized how inept I am at writing very intimate moments, lol. XD I hope the ending isn’t too cavity-inducing!
> 
> Things have been pretty busy for me with the holidays looming over the corner, but I wanted to share at least a little something with you all before Christmas. That is probably how the ending ended up becoming as ridiculously fluffy as it did, because I be a sucker for fluff and sharing said fluff when I can! XD
> 
> I’m hoping to update a WIP sometime next week if I have the time to do so, although it might end up being another one shot if I have a lot of time constraints. Happy Holidays to everyone who celebrates them this month! :D


	30. F*ck the System

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Grif developed an enjoyable morning routine. That is, until a certain cyborg had to go and ruin it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~N/A
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~Written for the 15kisses comm on Dreamwidth. The prompt was “Sagittarius: #1 Fuse.”  
> ~Set sometime shortly after the cyborg surgery way back in Blood Gulch.
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

Their shared room on base was suffocating and dark, just the way that Dexter Grif liked it.

He would often burrow himself deep into the woolen confines of the massive blanket collection he so deftly and painstakingly amassed over his time in Blood Gulch, just so any lingering traces of light would disappear. The orange-wearing soldier would then drift away from the inane craziness surrounding the Reds and Blues for just a few minutes.

He had lost count of all the times that Richard “Dick” Simmons had torn the blankets off of him with a sigh of frustration and a customary _“You can’t always sleep in late, fat-ass!”_ Personally, Grif thought that Simmons’ version of “Good morning!” sucked.

The whole thing was so routine anymore that Grif would roll over onto his side to look up at his agitated, pain-in-the-ass teammate with just one eye open in order to give the redhead his customary _“Good morning to you too, kiss-ass.”_ greeting just so he could get a rise out of the other man.

It had never once failed to do the trick either. The sight of the red flashing across Simmons’ freckled cheeks and his subsequent indignant shriek of utter exasperation and annoyance would help keep Grif in a rather good mood until well after breakfast, even with Sarge’s inane battle plans to contend with.

The nerd always seemed more alert and aware afterwards too, although that was probably helped by Simmons’ customary ten cups of coffee in the morning. Still, the maroon-armored man chose to stick around Grif to make sure that he didn’t sneak off to nap later on and he’d even allow himself to get dragged into all sorts of conversations with the heavyset man throughout the day that they’d both reluctantly admit were actually rather enjoyable.

So, all in all, it was a good routine that Grif had so subtly started.

…That was, until the morning five days ago, when a burrowed-in for the long haul Grif had been jolted from his odd, eager sense of anticipation for their shared morning ritual by the sound of a far too heavy thud on the floor.

Grif woke up to find Simmons lying on the ground in an unresponsive heap, which was _definitely_ not something he had wanted to open his eyes to. The sight brought to mind another still all too fresh time when he had opened his eyes to the sight of countless bodies all around him, and the thought that he’d be fucking alone _again_ caused the heavyset man to panic. He even called out to Sarge for help, for fuck’s sake! No one in their right state of mind would do that.

He just kept thinking that if Simmons didn’t wake up he’d definitely be all alone because, even if the other Reds and Blues were still around Blood Gulch, Simmons was the one Grif felt the most connected to for some inexplicable reason, especially with Kai still safely away back on Earth for the moment.

Doc and Sarge had pooled their limited medical knowledge together, of which Sarge, scarily but unsurprisingly enough, actually seemed to have more of _(Grif made a mental note to never see Doc for anything that even remotely required actual medical treatment)_. The two concluded that Simmons’ cybernetic heart mechanism, which Grif refused to call a _“gizmo”_ like Sarge did, needed to be replaced.

All because the dumbass nerd, for some also inexplicable and phenomenally stupid reason, had opted to give that organ along with a litany of other rather important body parts to Grif to save his life. It still baffled his mind to think on that particular twist of fate. _Why_ someone would ever choose to give up so much for someone like him in the first place was…

_When they had first spoken privately together after the cyborg surgery, barely able to look one another in the eye, it had been awkward. On one side there was Grif, fused together and alive with Simmons’ stolen body parts. He always tended to consider them such, because he felt that was what they were even if Simmons had volunteered to freely give them. And, on the other side, was Simmons, a fusion of warm flesh and cold metal. They had both uttered “Sorry.” at the same time and silently decided to never talk about the matter again lest things get weird._

It was a good system for Grif and Simmons, going right past the heavy things like that. Acknowledging just _why_ they acted a certain way, did a specific thing, or how they possibly felt deep down beneath the surface could send everything they had precariously stacked up crashing down. Even if there were times when they…

Long story short, Simmons got through the surgery to repair his mechanical replacement organ or whatever it actually was just fine. So, metaphorical bullet dodged there.

Once the redhead came to, they could get back to just being their usual selves, not dwelling on the heaviness of underlying feelings for just that much longer.

…The fact that Grif maybe wanted to do more, that he sometimes felt that Simmons, whenever he caught him out of the side of his eye regarding Grif with a contemplative smile or frown, might want the same, was totally beside the point.

The system fucking worked, damn it. Don’t fuck the system!

So, after Donut and Lopez both scampered off from their _“nurse”_ duty, Donut with a supportive shoulder pat and a sympathetic look on his face that Grif was desperate to ignore he ever saw and Lopez with a muttered “idiotas inconscientes” _{“oblivious idiots”}_ under his robotic equivalent of a breath, Grif sat on the chair that Nurse Donut had dragged to Simmons’ bedside.

He sat there, staring at the shiny metal fused to the side of Simmons’ face before his gaze went down all the way to his metallic arm resting above the blanket. Grif clamped his own hand, still far too pale to truly ever consider _his_ , around a cybernetic variation of the same to entwine warm digits around sculpted fingers. He hoped that Simmons could still fucking _feel_ the gesture.

Truth be told, he had never asked about the sensitivity of the circuitry that made up Simmons’ artificial parts, had been too afraid to do so even though he had wondered and hoped that he hadn’t taken all of it away. He didn’t know for how long he sat there waiting for when a drowsy, doped up Simmons would blink open his eyes to blearily look over and subsequently berate Grif for not getting any work done.

It took him by surprise when a bleary-eyed Simmons finally did look up at his mismatched face with a surge of immense _relief_ washing over his own. The cyborg’s still flesh and blood hand suddenly found its way to gently rest on the scars and stitches fusing their two skin tones together on the other man’s face.

“Grif!” Simmons breathed out happily, as if he couldn’t contain himself, “You’re still…still _here_!”

Yeah, okay. Simmons was clearly high as a fucking kite and not thinking straight at all since he seemed to be thinking they were talking right after the tank incident, but Grif’s breath hitched in his throat nevertheless.

His fingers tightened around Simmons’ metallic ones noticeably as he raised _his_ tan hand up to lightly grip Simmons’ still probing fingers in his own, holding them to his imperfectly scarred face for just a moment more.

“Good morning to you too, kiss-ass.” Grif told him fondly, despite it being well into the afternoon now and knowing that Simmons was so going to lose his shit when he was with it enough to realize he had missed out on five whole days of work so far, “Since when did you decide to sleep in late, huh?”

Grif and Simmons were fused together now, even when apart. Even if it would still be years later when they both mutually agreed to finally fuck the system entirely.

However, in this particular moment, if Grif remained holding Simmons’ hand even well after the point when the painkillers wearing off meant they couldn’t deny it had happened, neither man chose to speak about it. Nor did they speak of the fact that Simmons squeezed back with his own hand just as fervently when Grif finally pulled reluctantly away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again we find ourselves back to my special and inexplicable fondness for handholding in romantic, fluffy stories! :D It shall no doubt make a return yet again sometime soon! :)
> 
> I honestly have no idea where the idea for this story came from, but I quickly jotted it down before work one morning, so here it is! :D


	31. The Difference Between Magma and Lava

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tossing stuff one is ashamed of into the mouth of a volcano can become a surprisingly crowded ordeal._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~Palomo x Jensen
> 
>  **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~This story was inspired by the awesome blankslate101, who came up with the neat idea for Simmons to inadvertently be there somehow when Grif hurled the volleyballs into the volcano. Admittedly, the prompt got a bit carried away from there.  
> ~Written for the 15kinks comm on Dreamwidth. The prompt was “Libra: #9 Apology Sex.”  
> ~Spoilers abound for all of Season 15.
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

The rocky ground crunched softly underneath Dexter Grif’s armored feet as he paused at the very edge of the volcano’s mouth, a bag hefted over his shoulder. Even with his armor on and the cooling system in overdrive, the orange-wearing man felt a sheen of sweat form on his brow. Holy fuck, it was hot up here!

Grif glanced off to his left, where the Evil Volcano Lair was located. _“Evil Volcano Lair”_ being Donut’s name choice for the area, not his. Grif admitted that the title had a certain ring to it, as it was later picked up by Jax for the film version of the Reds and Blues’ story.

As he stood there, watching the volcanic activity, the heavyset soldier couldn’t help but wonder if someone had been told to pick up Gene yet. Eh, Simmons would probably do it eventually. Once the nerd was done talking to Dylan about whatever it was he had taken the reporter aside to stutter about.

Right now, Grif was up here for a very specific, non-Gene-related reason and, once he was through with it, he was going to calmly walk down this fiery death trap and maybe even see how Caboose and Kai’s efforts to retrieve Lopez’s sunken head were going as the ship got prepped for its return flight to Chorus.

The weight of the bag called to him, so Grif held the sack of offending spherical objects as far away from his person as his arm would allow.

“Well,” Grif stated rather conversationally to the bag’s contents, “It’s been _something_ , I guess.” He glanced back the way he had come momentarily before turning his attention back to the object in his hand, giving its contents a little shake for added measure, “But now that I’ve got the real assholes back, I don’t really need to be lugging around you symbolic representations of my guilt and loneliness. Or whatever.”

He could almost _hear_ the cacophony of angry, volatile protests that sounded a lot like his admittedly awesome impressions of his friends through the sack in reply. Save for Church’s impersonated voice, because that particular asshole had gone silent ever since Grif had forgotten to put air in him.

Yeah. It was probably time to chuck the bag before the volleyballs started mysteriously showing up on their own whenever he was in the middle of a shower.

_Again._

With as mighty a heave as he could muster, Grif tossed the sack high into the air before him.

It soared, opening about halfway through its descending arc because _(whoops!)_ he forgot to tie the damn thing up. Colorfully painted volleyballs began soaring freely though the sky before ultimately falling to their fiery fate down below.

Distantly, a faint _“Ow!”_ could be heard from Gene as Volleyball!Sarge managed to travel far enough to strike him on the back of his helmet where he was still precariously hanging on to a ledge for dear life. But, eh, Grif could care less because Simmons had been totally right about that guy being annoying as fuck.

The tan-skinned man turned to leave, his mismatched eyes catching sight of a flash of something small and resembling a data drive soaring into the lava down below. He followed the path of trajectory back to its source, both his green eye and brown eye landing on an all-too familiar figure in maroon armor who was just now lowering his cybernetic arm from its obvious throwing position.

The cyborg had made good distance with whatever it was he had thrown using his robot overlord strength. It had melted quicker than the balls had too.

“Simmons?” Grif asked in surprise before he could stop himself, forgetting for a moment that he had come here by himself because the volleyballs were a _bit_ challenging to explain. The look that Locus had given him through his steel-and-green helmet back when Grif had insisted on bringing the balls along for the rescue mission had said it all, especially since it had come from a guy who was probably well-acquainted with crazy.

“G—Grif?” Simmons started at finally having noticed that he had not been the only one to make this ridiculous trek, glancing at the gloomy, burning nothing all around them before nervously rubbing the back of his helmet, “You…uh, really had to throw away a bunch of volleyballs for some reason?”

“You know I don’t kid about doing something as painfully needless as _cleaning_ , Simmons.” Grif told him exasperatedly.

“Right.” A nod, and Simmons was giving him a look from beneath his visor. The same damn look Locus had given him, no doubt.

“What were you doing?” Grif asked curiously, hoping to change the subject.

“Oh! Um…I had some cleaning to do too!” Simmons said as he shifted awkwardly on his feet, looking as downright sheepish as a guy could get in head-to-toe body armor, which was about as sheepish as they had both been before that interrupting Jax had totally cock-bloc--… _er_ , never mind.

“Really?” Grif asked, raising an eyebrow, “In a volcano?”

“Yeah. Y—yeah.” Simmons repeated the word as if that would make things all the more clear, shifting again on the spot where he still nervously stood and looking pointedly _not_ at Grif, “I wanted…to get rid of an old interview clip.”

“A simple delete wouldn’t have been enough to cover up the embarrassment, huh?” The orange-armored soldier teased.

Simmons seemed to shrink into himself, still not meeting Grif’s visor, “N—not really. It was…” Simmons paused, sounding almost pained, “It was from after you quit.” He turned to regard another patch of volcanic rock, “After we left.”

_Oh, oh!_ The light went off in Grif’s brain then and he smiled self-deprecatingly, “That bad, huh?”

“Grif…” Simmons finally turned to look at him, tone hesitant and regretful, “I—”

“It’s _fine_ , Simmons.” Grif cut him off, “I was upset. You were upset.” He sighed as he glanced up at the cloudy sky above their heads and the billowing smoke rising from the volcano, “We both said shit we wish we hadn’t, so let’s just drop it. Okay?”

For a moment, Grif thought that Simmons might try to argue with his all too desperate-sounding plea, but then the redhead weakly nodded his head instead.

Grif’s sigh of relief was clearly audible even with the various volcano noises going on around them. He took a step towards the other man, planning on taking Simmons by the elbow and getting the hell away from this spot, “Come on then, we should—”

“Grif?” Simmons speaking up again halted his tracks, the maroon-wearing Sim Trooper pointing to something on the ground behind the tan-skinned man, “What is that?”

Grif turned around cautiously, dread pooling in his gut at the realization that a volleyball with a maroon helmet painted on it had somehow survived the air trip. The offending object was now staring up at him from the ground with its usual accusing, mocking gaze.

“Well, shit.” Grif muttered glumly, refusing to meet Simmons’ questioning gaze, “This is all sorts of awkward.”

Behind him, Simmons remained absolutely still and silent.

*****

Neither of them said a word on their way down the volcano, though Richard “Dick” Simmons did finally remember to at least tell Andersmith about Gene so that someone could go get him once they rejoined the others. Although, seriously, fuck that guy.

Simmons was too lost in his thoughts to talk. He couldn’t stop from remembering the way Grif had picked up the crudely painted volleyball version of himself, how the heavyset man had stared at it almost fondly as he muttered _“I’ll probably miss you most of all, frie—_ buddy _, right that’s better. Even if you were a giant asshole too.”_ before he hurled it back over the volcano edge. They watched the thing start to melt even before it had the chance to hit the lava.

Grif had started back to the ship silently then, Simmons trailing after him. The _“Do you want to talk about it?”_ that nearly passed the cyborg’s lips seemed too heavy and painful to voice out loud as he watched the way Grif’s shoulders sagged. The maroon-armored soldier tried to not take his sudden refusal to meet Simmons’ eyes too personally.

So, _that_ was the mystery behind the volleyballs that Grif had been so desperate to try and hide. The only reason Simmons had ever found out about it was because he had been so desperate to get rid of that horrible interview with Dylan, back when he had been upset about Grif staying behind and trying to remain in denial as to just _why_ he had been upset.

Grif had been so fucking lonely on that moon after they had left _(abandoned)_ him there that he had tried to fill the void with poorly made replicas.

It was both creepy _and_ touching in a way. But, ultimately? Ultimately it was more depressing than anything else, a further reminder of just how much of an ass Simmons had been for leaving and not saying anything. The truth was, he had been too shocked, too stunned for words at the time. He had been immensely hurt and angry too. With Grif.

But, _still_ , more than anything else, he had _missed_ the fucking asshole.

At least he had finally admitted _that_ much. Now he was just glad that Grif was back, and he wanted Grif to know that at least _one_ person actually wanted him around. And he had been glad to find out that Grif had wanted him around too.

Simmons had frozen up about the Hate Glue remark though, because he _was_ absolutely dumb and useless when it came to dealing with the stuff that really mattered.

Of course, he knew that they both were like that more often than not. Neither of them could just say what they were truly feeling if they thought there was a chance that it could possibly delve into too heavy, too real, too emotional a territory. They’d rather try to cover it up by outright lying, making excuses, or simply denying whatever was going on in the first place.

Fuck, they had been an awkward mess of denial even _before_ the Temple of Procreation incident. But maybe, and the still flesh and blood portion of Simmons’ face turned absolutely red at the notion and he could feel the circuitry under his face plating starting to heat up because he could not actually believe he was even thinking _this_ , maybe there was a way for Grif and Simmons to finally get past their emotional constipation?

Actions spoke louder than words. Sometimes. _Maybe._

…If Simmons didn’t panic and throw up first, that is.

*****

The ship ride back to Chorus was probably going to be rather uneventful, save for getting through the usual security checkpoints and the shit with the planetary blockade. So, Grif took the opportunity to slip out of Kai’s surprisingly ironclad grip. She had looked at him questioningly for a moment, but eased up when he assured her that he had no immediate plans to jump out of their ride into outer space. Then, she quickly went back to asking Jensen for the deal on her _“totally hot volleyball friend.”_

Kai’s conversation caused something of a lurching feeling in his stomach along with the usual exasperation at his sister’s antics, but he tried quelling it down by steadfastly denying it all the same. His eyes wandered over to Tucker and Caboose.

They hovered around Carolina in one of the transport’s side-rooms while Doc checked her vitals to the best of his lack of any real medical knowledge would allow. The youngest Blue was talking excitedly about how they would all have to bring Washington back ice cream when they visited him at the hospital. It wasn’t shocking that apparently Caboose equated getting shot through the throat and nearly dying with having one’s tonsils removed, not that having ice cream after either circumstance wouldn’t be awesome in Grif’s book. The orange-wearing man avoided that group for the moment, figuring they needed some space after all that had happened.

He spied Sarge attempting to somehow cobble together a new body for Lopez out of spare parts that had been lying around the ship and a shoestring that Caboose had found earlier, while Donut volunteered to keep the older man and the robot’s head company. He could hear Lopez’s electronic lament that he hadn’t actually minded the ocean after all as he passed by his fellow Red Team trio.

The other lieutenants were busy flying the ship. Well, Bitters was at any rate, after he had conversed with Matthews that they were all fine earlier. Palomo was probably offering his commentary on everything they were passing by intermittently, gushing about his relationship with Jensen as Andersmith took up the actual co-piloting. The journalist lady and her cameraman had evidently tagged along so that she could inquire more about the ongoing situation on Chorus, although she was frustrated by Bitters’ angry one-word responses.

As for Simmons, well he had no idea where the fuck the cyborg was now, actually. Grif hadn’t seen him since they had boarded the ship. No doubt Simmons was staunchly trying his hardest to avoid him given how crazy he had revealed himself to have gotten after everyone had left him behind.

It really wasn’t shocking and it only hurt…well, _like a bitch_ , but he was sort-of used to that now. He kind of deserved it after all, right?

Grif wandered into an empty side-room to promptly shed his armor, figuring that maybe he could catch a few z’s before Kai or someone else came looking for him.

He hadn’t slept too well on the moon by himself, especially not after the volleyballs showed up to mock him for even attempting to do so. But, with all of them molten and everyone actually around him now, maybe…

“Grif?”

Grif paused at the soft knock on the side of the now open doorway, turning around to see Simmons standing there awkwardly. At some point, SImmons had put on the standard issue clothing the lieutenants had brought along with them for the Reds and Blues.

Grif’s stomach was back to being nothing but a pit of nerves, anxiety, and regret at the sight as he swallowed dryly, “Oh, um, hey, _buddy_.”

Yeah, he made a face then. Grif _still_ hadn’t figured out the right word to convey just how he felt for the dumbass nerd yet. Not that it probably mattered much now, since Simmons was likely to have come by just to end whatever it was that lay between them in light of the whole being crazy issue.

The thought _hurt_ and had him wanting to panic and run out the door that the redhead was currently blocking, just to delay the inevitable. But, Simmons stepped inside the room with a thoughtful frown and _locked_ the door behind him, nixing Grif’s escape plan.

Okay, Simmons _really_ wanted him to hear it, huh? Grif could almost feel tears starting to pinprick his mismatched eyes even though he never cried. It was stupid because he deserved this and…

His thoughts stopped when he glanced at a red-faced Simmons’ mouth, set into a grim line of determination. Had the maroon-wearing man fucking practiced this because he was just that much of a perfectionist nerd? Simmons swiftly marched across the scant distance between them in his long-legged, awkward stride.

He looked Grif squarely in the eyes and opened his mouth to say the dreaded words and insults that were no doubt coming Grif’s way. His flesh and blood hand went up too because apparently he wanted to punch Grif for good measure as well. At least he wasn’t going to use the cyborg one. Simmons had every right to hit him and so what if Grif flinched because this _hurt_ so fucking much already…

But then Simmons’ slightly shaking fingers gently brushed against the side of his face, ghosting over the bruises and cuts that were there from when Grif had fallen in that asshole Temple’s evil lair.

“Promise me you’ll get those looked at back on Chorus.” Simmons said softly, his hand’s warmth still lingering on the side of Grif’s face.

A stunned Grif felt the blood rushing to his cheeks, no doubt causing his paler one to almost match the red of Simmons’ hair. “…Okay?” He managed to get out, unsure as to what was going on because this was the weirdest _“get out of my life, asshole”_ conversation he had ever experienced.

A shy, sort-of smile of relief crossed over Simmons’ face then before he suddenly leaned in, his lips on Grif’s.

The kiss was as hesitant and unsure at first as one would expect a kiss initiated by Simmons to be, but as it lingered, Simmons became rather emboldened by the fact that Grif didn’t push him away in disgust _(as if he ever would)_ and it became much more earnest.

Grif responded in turn once his brain clicked in that this was _actually_ happening and it wasn’t just one of his way-too-good-to-be-true dreams. He kissed Simmons back just as desperate, just as passionate, just as yearning.

The whole thing reminded Grif of a certain incident in a storage closet awhile back, but there was so much _more_ behind the exchange now than just a lust-filled urge to act on pent-up frustration and years of unresolved tension. The kiss was desperate, yes, but softer too. It spoke of something _more_ underneath it all.

When they finally pulled apart for air, Grif’s arms had snaked around Simmons’ waist without his having realized it and the cyborg’s arms could be felt around his neck. Simmons’ face was as red as his own no doubt was, but there was a spark of something in his still human eye all the same.

There wasn’t that awkward, uncomfortableness hanging over them like there had been moments after the Temple of Procreation incident, when they had started to realize just how much the status quo between the two of them had changed over the years. Back then, neither of them had been sure of how to process that knowledge just then because _feelings_ were something they both sucked at.

Instead, their individual grips now tightened around the other even more, drawing the pair closer in a mutual embrace. For a moment, they remained in a comfortable, altogether soothing silence. Grif felt relaxed for the first time in…well, it had been fucking _forever_.

Simmons let out a soft breath, “I’m sorry.”

“Hmm?” Grif replied dreamily, nearly not catching the very earnest but whispered comment.

Only Simmons’ tone brought him back to reality from where he had been up on cloud nine.

Simmons bit his lip, looking like a lost puppy as he lowered his gaze, “For…for freezing up before. For leaving and getting angry. For that awful interview, and for not telling you just how…” he swallowed thickly, arms shaking but tightening a fraction more around Grif as if scared the other would pull away at any second, “Grif, I’m so sorry and I meant what I said before. I’m so glad you’re back and—!”

Grif cut him off by pulling the lanky nerd impossibly closer still, smiling at the surprised squeak he managed to illicit from the other man through his action. “It wasn’t my finest moment either, Simmons,” he reminded him, “We were both assholes.”

“B—but…”

Grif lifted his feet up slightly so that he could press his forehead against Simmons’ lowered one, “I’m sorry too, Simmons.” He told him emphatically, “And I, for one, am fucking glad to be back.”

The orange-wearing soldier further emphasized his point, cutting off any further protest from Simmons by sealing his mouth firmly against his. The action stunned the other man into silence, and it was only a moment before he was returning the gesture with interest.

“Fuck,” Grif commented once they finally pulled apart again, “If throwing shit into a volcano can kick things up this much, we should have done it a _long_ time ago.”

Simmons rolled his eyes, his hand resting on Grif’s face again, “Moron.” He muttered fondly. Unlike with that asshole volleyball version of him, Simmons’ exasperated tone was warm. The word was underlined by all of the emotions they always had so much difficulty saying out loud.

“Oh, admit it, Simmons! That was a sick _burn_!” Grif joked back just as fondly, “Get it?”

Simmons laughed, the sound musical in all the best ways possible as he pulled Grif back towards him again, “I really am glad you’re back, Grif.”

Grif’s lips found their way to Simmons’ neck, his hold on the redhead’s waist tightening even more, “Me too, Simmons. Me too.”

The ride back to Chorus ended up being way more eventful than Grif had expected it to be. After a finally decent sleep, he woke up in a pile of hastily tossed aside clothing with his arms still holding a naked Simmons flush against his chest as close as was physically possible. For once, Grif definitely felt he had no reason at all to complain about having something to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title for this story is meant to represent Grif and Simmons’ dynamic in a way, as the only real difference between lava and magma is that magma is the molten liquid rock that is trapped underneath a volcano while lava is the molten liquid rock that has broken through the crust and is visible on the surface. It could be symbolic for emotions and passions burning hot and I _could_ say I was attempting to be super-deep with the title choice here, but really I was just having a hard time coming up with something else to call this work. XD
> 
> Holy moly though! Considering that I wasn’t sure I would even be able to write anything at all this week because my schedule turned out to be way more hectic and busier than usual, I ended up writing THREE things! XD I’m so happy that I got to update _Pillow Talk_ twice since I can be pretty sporadic with updating this story collection compared to my WIPs, and I’m totally blaming copious and extremely unhealthy amounts of caffeine for the surprising burst in writing activity! XD The crash will be a painful one to be sure once my lack of sleep catches up with me, but it was fun all the same while it lasted! :D
> 
> I hope you enjoyed both story updates here this week, even if my writing of those more intimate moments still leaves a lot to be desired. XD Thank you for reading! :D


	32. Make the Beach Come to You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Simmons has been overworking himself on a secret something. Grif wants to know what it is._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~Background Docnut  
> ~Background Sarcus
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~The fluff. Dear me, the fluff! XD  
> ~Spoilers abound for Season 15.
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

A lot of odd things happened on the retirement moon. The type of strange occurrences one would choose not to dwell on overly much for the sake of their continued sanity. This had definitely been true before Dylan Andrews and Jax Jonez whisked the Reds and Blues away on another crazy and terrifying adventure. It was certainly true once they were finally able to return after things had managed to settle down. Well, settle down as best as it was going to for the time being.

Back in Blood Gulch and later on even in Valhalla, seeing a Blue sitting at the Reds’ kitchen table with a box of crayons and a coloring book probably would have been one of those strange incidents. Now, it was something that fell well within the normal occurrences of any given week.

When exactly did their lives get even _more_ fucked up than usual? Richard “Dick” Simmons had long stopped wasting the brain cells and processing power it took to even remotely figure out the answer to that question. It just wasn’t fucking worth it.

“Morning, Caboose.” Simmons said casually in way of greeting, sighing as he shook his head from where he had been standing just in front of the doorway contemplating his current life before walking over to the refrigerator.

“Good morning!” The relatively harmless _(well, so long as you weren’t on_ his _team)_ rookie cheerfully supplied, “I like mornings. They start the day!”

“Uh-huh.”

Well, good to know Caboose still knew certain time references at least. Sometimes, especially after they’d lost Epsilon, it almost seemed like the blond had given up on caring about that sort of thing. Caboose even worried Carolina and Washington with the odd hours he always seemed to keep now.

Before they had left Chorus, Andersmith had made all of the Reds and Blues promise to make sure that his captain got a decent amount of sleep. The group effort had resulted in quite a few rather odd sleepovers. Hell, during the fifth sleepover, both Grif and Simmons had partnered up with Carolina to figure out just where Donut was hiding his nail polish horde after yet another impromptu _“makeover”_ in Fort Freckles.

“You shouldn’t stare at the morning sun though.” Caboose advised helpfully, as though convinced that Simmons was just about to go out and do that very thing, “I tried once and my eyes burned.”

“Um, I’m fairly certain it’s a bad idea to stare at the sun during any time of the day.”

“Not at night if you can find it!” Caboose was happy to correct Simmons before his tone lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, “But the sun goes into hiding then. That’s what my mom used to tell me.”

“Right.” Simmons said as he glanced around for the coffee pot, trying to ignore the fact that that’s not really what happens to the sun. The scientifically-minded part of his brain really wanted to desperately correct the younger man, but the redhead thought that the little story Caboose’s mother had come up with _was_ rather touching in a way.

His parents wouldn’t have even bothered, and Simmons was definitely not already planning on buying _Baby Beginning Astronomy_ books or videos for the way too minute possibility he might ever have a child he could teach things to. Nope!

“I like to color in the mornings.” Caboose had already moved on to a different topic, “Though coloring at any time is fun!”

Which further explained why the Blue carried crayons with him instead of extra ammunition. He carried batteries too now, in remembrance of Loco.

The silence was beginning to border on awkward, although conversations with Caboose tended to skirt that line anyway. Not that Simmons disliked him or anything! Actually, the two of them had been getting along surprisingly well following Caboose having picked up on Simmons missing Grif during the start of their latest adventure mishap. Truth be told, Simmons _may_ have offered to stay up with Caboose for a few nights before Washington had come back from his recovery on Chorus so that the blond and Freckles weren’t lonely. It was just that Simmons was never sure how to respond to the many bizarre things Caboose would say.

Thankfully, before he could get dragged into anymore odd conversation topics with Caboose, his orange-armored teammate clamored in, “Hey, Simmons.” Dexter Grif greeted with a sleepy yawn.

It figured that the fat-ass would still be tired. He’d still been in bed when Simmons had exited his room across the hallway. Granted, that had been about four hours earlier than even Sarge stipulated they had to wake up, but Simmons was a firm believer in _“the early bird gets the worm”_ or whatever the hell phrase meant he got up early.

Not to mention that Simmons _may_ have gotten into the habit of stopping by and checking on Grif just to alleviate some weird nervous tick he had gotten into about wanting to make sure that Grif was still around and okay, but it wasn’t weird or anything!

In Simmons’ defense, the inventory checklists and the routine checkup on the pointless-but-still-should-be-done-regardless EMP cannon on the Warthog weren’t going to complete themselves, now were they? His chore wheel wasn’t going to get done if he slept in! Besides, he was still trying to get in more hours on a personal project that he had to take into account.

If Simmons had to make an educated guess based on past history, the chubby soldier’s disheveled appearance here probably meant that Grif hadn’t gotten up for another good eight or nine hours after the maroon-armored soldier had woken up. Seriously, it was no wonder Grif never really got anything done. Well, probably more of a combination of his sleeping habits _and_ general laziness.

Except, Simmons corrected himself with a contemplative frown as he regarded his friend, that wasn’t really always the case now, was it? Grif still slept in and lazed about as much as he could, but he definitely was putting in more effort, sometimes even on some of Sarge’s more inane ideas. It was both nice to see in a way and disconcerting all at once. Simmons wasn’t quite sure how to really broach the topic yet though.

As if reading Simmons’ earlier thoughts about coffee, Grif handed him a cup from what was probably an earlier made batch. Simmons made a face at the cold bitterness of it, but coffee tasted worse reheated so he choked it down gratefully.

“Didn’t have time to make some yourself before being a kiss-ass so early in the morning?” Grif asked, shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

It was their usual bickering ribbing, and Simmons responded to it with his usual lack-of-caffeine profoundness: “Bite me.”

“Seriously, dude, I don’t get how you can function with as little sleep as you get.” Grif’s tone now was more musing, and the slight deviation from their usual repartee caught the Dutch-Irishman slightly off-guard.

“Don’t know how you can manage to _not_ function with all of the extra hours you sleep.” Simmons finally mumbled, hoping the mug he kept close to his mouth would hide any lingering traces of his earlier surprise.

His teammate raised a black eyebrow in response, “Uh, Simmons?” It’s not so much about _not_ functioning when you just choose not to do any work.” Grif’s tone almost sounded sagely, like he was passing off Words of Wisdom.

Simmons couldn’t help but roll his eyes, “That’s very wise, Grif.”

“You should try it more often.” Grif looked thoughtful again “Hell, you work enough for ten people.”

“That’s because certain people here don’t tend to do any of their work!”

Grif looked at him with fake innocence, and Simmons gripped the coffee mug tightly with both hands to keep from strangling the tan man.

That was always the way things went with their exchanges: he either ended up thinking of ways he could inflict bodily harm on Grif _(or just make his life a little more miserable for a while)_ , or he wanted to do something else _entirely_ to the other soldier. Something that was probably best not to think about too much.

It was especially odd when those signals got mixed up, as they had been doing with more frequency and intensity recently. _That_ was definitely not helped by that Temple of Procreation business. Don’t get him wrong! That business had been admittedly _great_ , but it had made things so much more awkward and tense between the two of them in a lot of respects.

Like right now, when his mind went from thoughts of dropping the coffee mug to strangle Grif out of frustration, to dropping the coffee mug to pin Grif to the counter and shut him up before he could say anything else in a completely different way. _Also_ out of frustration.

Neither of them were great with feelings, and they had staunchly been avoiding delving too much into the feelings that had been brought to the surface thanks to Tucker’s stupid celebration stunt. Not to mention with the two of them just being relieved to be back together again after the whole _“quitting and leaving”_ thing and…

Shit. If Dylan and Jax hadn’t been there that one time in Temple’s underwater lair, what would have ended up happening between them? The emotional answer terrified Simmons even more than the potential _“kiss”_ one did, and let’s just say that both potential scenarios had him wanting to puke because he would have totally screwed things up between them. He just fucking knew it!

“Whatever, man. I still think you work too hard.” Grif was saying, his voice breaking Simmons away from his conflicting thoughts, “Look, you’re turning red! You’ve probably overworked yourself and gotten a fever or something.”

_That_ made the heat rushing to the cyborg’s still flesh-and-blood cheek become even more pronounced, and he had to steady himself to try to keep his tone even when he talked next: “And I’m sure you’d be an expert on working yourself that hard in the first place.”

Oddly enough, he could almost swear he saw a tinge of darkening color and an almost pinkish hue on Grif’s multi-toned cheeks. He did that more and more now, whenever they got into their _“friend”_ talk, but what did Grif have to be flustered about? Showing mild concern for a friend and teammate wasn’t anything embarrassing. So Simmons brushed that question from his mind a second later.

Despite the almost blush, Grif responded with a shrug, “Maybe not personally, but I do watch you do it an awful lot.” He mumbled, more to himself than Simmons.

Simmons looked up, surprised, just in time to see Grif grimace as if he’d realized he had just been caught admitting something he’d rather not have anyone knowing. And, yes, this time his face took on a much more noticeable crimson hue. As if in response, Simmons could feel his own face heat up slightly.

“You…you do?” Simmons cursed himself mentally at how unsure his voice sounded. He’d been working so hard at getting rid of his insecurities, but somehow _Grif_ in particular always had a way of drawing them out unexpectedly.

It took Grif a few seconds to recover from his initial embarrassment though he also seemed slightly unsure when he spoke up finally, “Well, yeah. I mean, how else would I know the dangers of overworking and reaffirm my commitment to making sure I never experience them?” He joked, “And I’m lazy and don’t like to work in general, so there’s that too.”

Just like that, whatever awkwardness had just passed between them dissipated into their normal banter. It was both relieving and somewhat oddly disappointing to the two Red Team members.

“Now that talk time is over, can I have another juice box?” The blond Blue Team rookie sitting at the table inquired, as if on cue.

Both Grif and Simmons went red again, having completely forgotten Caboose being there during their exchange.

“S—sure, Caboose.” Simmons went back to the refrigerator and looked at the shelves on the door.

He was surprised to find that, sure enough, there were juice boxes. He wondered if Sarge or Donut had gotten them on their last supply run to Chorus specifically because Caboose would pop up here every once in a while. Caboose had gotten addicted to a specific brand of juice that Andersmith apparently had been stockpiling for special occasions.

“Here you go.” Simmons handed a carton with smiley-faced cartoon apples to the younger man. Seriously, the crap people try marketing to kids these days!

“Isn’t that your fifth one since you got here?” Grif asked in a bored tone.

“I like juice.” Caboose looked thoughtful, how odd that the expression he used made him look cross-eyed and like he was in slight discomfort _(which, for all Simmons knew, was perhaps true)_ , “And these ones taste better than the big juice boxes Kaikaina has.”

“Uh-huh.” Simmons shared a look with Grif, knowing that her brother was thinking the same thing he was, that what Kaikaina Grif was drinking was most definitely _not_ juice.

“Those ones taste weird, and Kaikaina yells at me for drinking them if I don’t ask permission first. And Agent Washington yells at both of us. And Tucker laughs, right before Washington yells at him. Agent Carolina just sighs and goes outside to drink coffee.”

“That sounds tough.” Simmons glanced over at Grif again, and from the exasperatedly annoyed look crossing over his friend’s features, he had a sneaking suspicion that the girl was in for another big brother lecture about her drinking habits.

“But this juice is the best!” Caboose exclaimed happily, sucking on the straw so tightly that his cheeks caved in along with the carton’s sides.

Grif got over his annoyance at having discovered one of his little sister’s latest escapades for the moment, regarding Caboose with mild amusement, “Still, that’s a lot of juice to be drinking all at once there, buddy. Maybe you should pace yourself.”

“Says the guy who can down a six-pack in one minute flat or an entire wedding cake in under two hours?” Simmons looked at the heavyset soldier incredulously, “As if you’re a model for moderation, Grif.”

The orange-armored man shrugged “Never said I was, Simmons. I’m just a little afraid of what’ll happen when all that juice catches up with him.”

Oh, crap. Simmons hadn’t even thought of _that_.

“Caboose! You do remember where the bathroom is in this building, don’t you? The layout is almost identical to Blue Team’s!”

A pause. The blank look on Caboose’s face was not reassuring, “You might have to show me again.” He finally said.

Simmons groaned, and caught the triumphant smirk on Grif’s face. He glared in response, “Shut the fuck up, Grif.”

“Why, Simmons, I haven’t even said anything yet!”

It didn’t seem possible, but that goddamned smirk grew even wider.

_If I shoot him now, no one but Caboose would see it and I could probably convince him that Grif was just playing dead!_

But then another, less homicidal, thought crossed his mind as he replayed what Grif had just said.

“So you knew that Caboose was here already?” Simmons asked, curiosity getting the better of him. Damn his inquisitive mind!

A dark-haired nod, “He’s been here since I got up. Kaikaina brought him with her when she came to visit me. She wanted to see if she could leave him behind in exchange for some of Sarge’s liquor stash.” Grif smirked, “You’d have thought she would have learned her lesson after trying to drop off Tucker’s alien kid with us back at Blood Gulch that one time.”

Grif’s sister was taking a break from her incredibly successful business at the moment to spend some quality time catching up with her big brother and friends. Kaikaina had somehow even convinced Carolina to let her room with her, given her previous Blue Team status.

“I was coming here anyway to see Private McMuffin, and she said I could come with her!” Caboose supplied helpfully, apparently not having picked up on the fact that he had been used as a failed bartering chip for booze, “She’s so nice!”

“Uh-huh.” Simmons really didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise, “And what did you need to see Donut for?”

“Er, something Top Secret that I can’t tell anyone about. Not even for rainbow sprinkles! …Or a pony.”

Simmons glanced inquiringly at Grif again, who shrugged uncaringly in response. Donut and Caboose were pretty harmless, so whatever _“secret”_ things they were up to, he doubted it was anything to be concerned over. He made a mental note to ask Donut about it later if he remembered.

“So did Kai leave him here then?”

It would not surprise Simmons in the slightest if she had. They’d all had a little bit of a shock a few weeks ago when Sarge had stepped into the bathroom and found Tucker _“making himself at home”_ in the shower just a few hours after one of her visits. He apparently hadn’t even realized Kaikaina had left him there when she had gotten bored, though why he was taking a shower was still a mystery.

Grif shook his head, “Not this time. Kai said she wanted to look around, and I needed to get something to eat. So I figured she’d have fun in the holo-room or whatever.”

“…Wait, what?”

For some reason, that comment made Simmons feel rather panicky. Granted, the programs _he_ worked on in particular in the new and improved Holographic Chamber that Sarge had finally got working after picking up more scrap parts from Chorus were security-encrypted. He figured they were safe. Besides, it wasn’t like Kaikaina would know how to access them. But what if she happened to scroll down the list of program names and…

“Simmons, you okay?” Grif looked mildly concerned at the nervous expression his friend was sporting.

It made sense, really. Grif didn’t care to pay much attention to the Holographic Chamber himself beyond being grateful that the virtual Grifs curbed some of Sarge’s aggression towards him. He didn’t know about the programs that Simmons had made using it: the older ones from Valhalla like the fatherly Sarge, his… _his_ holo-Grif _(gah, there was_ a lot _of embarrassment tied to that one if Grif ever did find out about it. It was probably for the best that he had deleted both of those programs before they’d left just in case)_ , and then there were the new programs he had been working on. Ones that Simmons wasn’t sure what he’d do with when they were completed, but that he knew he needed to keep private in the meantime.

Especially the one he had been spending pretty much _all_ of his free time on ever since they had come back from Earth…

Kaikaina might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but she was actually phenomenally observant and more than capable of putting two and two together if she was scrolling through file names.

“Oh, shit!” Simmons scrambled up from the chair he’d only just recently sat in during Caboose’s talk on juice, already flying out the kitchen doorway.

“Simmons?!?” Grif yelled after him, more than just a little surprised at the outburst and subsequent fleeing he’d witnessed.

“He must have really needed to go to the bathroom too.” Caboose chimed in.

“…” Grif said nothing, still staring at the doorway Simmons had bolted through.

“Never mind. I have to go now too.” The Blue Team member’s voice broke through his thoughts a moment later, “Can you show me where it is again?”

“Goddamn it!”

*****

Kaikaina Grif emerged from the Holographic Chamber, her yellow helmet clutched at her side. She looked up to see Simmons bolting down the hall, going so fast that you’d almost expect to see a smoke trail behind his feet. She couldn’t help but smirk, her brown eyes twinkling as she gave him her customary greeting.

“What’s up, nerd?”

Simmons ignored her. Well, it was more like he didn’t have the energy to respond. He’d run so fast over here that it felt as though even his mechanical body parts needed a moment to recalibrate.

It was an odd sensation, really. He no longer had a set of organic lungs to worry about, Grif was well on his way to ruining his old ones with his smoking. But the cybernetic replacements he had still functioned similarly. Not having _“proper”_ lungs in the scientific sense also didn’t mean that his body still couldn’t act like he _should_ have them all the same. It was weird and awkward, and more than just a little bit jarring, but he was finally getting used to it now, years later. It had been much, much harder earlier on when the operation had been fresh.

“H-hey, Kai.” Simmons finally managed to get out through wheezing breaths.

“Were those the girly-laps you told me about before?” Kaikaina didn’t seem curious at all about _why_ he’d been running fast in the first place, “They look pretty hardcore. Not sure I’m cut out for them.”

“Um…”

“Is my brother still in the kitchen?” The yellow-armored girl asked as she walked past him, “I want to say goodbye before I leave.”

“You were in the Holographic Chamber?”

Kaikaina paused at the question, “Yeah, is that a problem?” She crinkled her tan nose slightly when she frowned, “Is that old guy going to yell at me again?”

“Well, you did raid his liquor cabinet last time.”

“There was no sign that said I couldn’t!”

“It was in his room and the cabinet was locked!”

“The holo-room wasn’t locked and Dex showed me how to use it.” Kai replied as she shrugged, obviously thinking that the details of her last escapade weren’t extremely important.

“Well, yes. And Sarge wouldn’t really get mad at you for using it…”

“Do you think I could use it for a rave then?” She asked, cutting him off with sparkling eyes, “It would make things a lot livelier than throwing them back at Blood Gulch. You wouldn’t even have to drink as much to get the same effect from the smoke machine!”

“Er…”

It figured. Kaikaina saw a piece of new technology, and her first reaction was to see how it could be used to improve her partying. Honestly, he was relieved and, truthfully, if she somehow figured out a way to work it into her business, then he was certain Grif would probably be all for the potential extra income, like that real estate scam with the white supremacists the three of them had all tried out.

“Maybe that _“Hawaii”_ program would be a good setting for a rave. I used to have the best parties back home.”

_That_ got the nervous feeling to rise in the pit of his stomach again. Simmons glanced up at the young woman’s face, surprised to see her scrutinizing him with a look that seemed a bit too mature for her usual façade.

Shit. She totally knew.

His mouth hung open, his brain trying to come up with something logical to say, _anything_ to say, really. But, he was failing miserably.

“Random button pushing always gets me where I need to go.” Kaikaina finally said into the awkward and uncomfortable silence that had descended upon their conversation like a blanket, “I don’t think anyone else will be able to find it again since all of the old man’s stuff comes up first. Don’t worry.”

“…”

…Simmons’ brain was seriously failing him now.

Kai looked at him, a sudden thought crossing her mind, “That _is_ a program for my big bro, right?”

For a moment, she almost looked worried. As if she was afraid that her initial assumption had been wrong. Her expression almost reminded him of when he was younger, of how nervous he’d been in making assumptions during social interactions. Sadly, life as a _“nerd”_ in school combined with all of the drama at his house had not made those situations easy for him. He was amazed at the strides he’d taken in college and in the army.

In a bizarre, roundabout way, being reminded of that somehow caused him to finally think of something to say. “Yeah, it’s for Grif.” Simmons assured her, “It’s sort of like a gift for him. I guess.”

One that he might never have the nerve to show him, but he didn’t have to let Kai know that.

“It’s not finished yet.”

“Oh, that’s a bummer then.” She pouted, “Guess I can’t use it for raves until after he sees it, huh?”

“Yeah.” Simmons fidgeted nervously, desperately wanting this conversation to end, “You won’t tell him about it, will you?”

Kaikaina shook her head, “I don’t tell him everything, so no worries.” She grinned, the expression rather similar to her brother’s.

Relief washed over him and he relaxed, “Thanks.”

“Besides, with the amount of booze I’m planning to drink tonight, I doubt I’ll remember where my underwear is, much less anything about the holo-room!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Simmons started before her words sank into his brain a moment later, “Wait…what?”

He wasn’t even sure he wanted the young woman to elaborate more. Damn his overactive imagination sometimes! Thankfully, before she possibly could, there were footsteps in the hallway behind them.

“Simmons! Grif’s sister hasn’t been messing up the holo-chamber, has she?” Sarge’s voice called out to the duo.

“Um,” Simmons glanced at the girl in question, but she seemed uninterested in responding, “I don’t think so, sir.”

“Are you sure?” Sarge didn’t sound convinced, “None of her loud techno dance music is going to be blaring the next time we have a training session? The holographic Warthog isn’t going to be pink and covered in lace?”

“No more than when Donut uses the room, sir.” Simmons assured him.

“All of that training stuff is so lame, anyways.” Kai sniffed dismissively as Sarge came into view, “You’re lame and you’re old and I hate you!”

“Of course you’d think so. You young’uns have no respect for the preparation and effort it takes to truly decimate the enemy.”

“What enemy?” Grif asked from just behind their commanding officer, Caboose in tow, “We’re not at war with the Blues anymore, remember? And Temple and the Blues and Reds aren’t around anymore.”

“There’s always an enemy, dirt-bag!” Sarge sighed at having to reiterate what he felt should be common knowledge to his troops by now for what seemed to be the millionth time, “Even when you don’t know who they are. That’s why you’ve always got to be prepared! Why else do you think I sleep with my shotgun?”

“Because you’re insane?” The orange-armored soldier supplied helpfully, clearly tired of the conversation.

“Just for that, Grif, you get to clean out the weapons supply closet with nothing but a toothbrush. _Your_ toothbrush.” Sarge smirked as a groan from Grif followed his order, “It’ll probably take you all day since you have the speed of an upside down tortoise, so better get movin’.”

“I seriously hate my life.”

“As do all of us, Grif, but giving you orders does help me sleep at night.”

“Thanks so much, sir.”

“You’re welcome.” Sarge said as he turned to Simmons, “Now, Simmons, after the Blues leave I’ll need you and Lopez to help me with some diagnostics on the teleporter do-hickey we have on the roof. We don’t use it ever and I don’t quite know where it even goes, but I figure we should know if it’s working properly if we ever need to use it in an emergency.”

“Of course, sir.” The maroon-armored soldier said before he looked around, noticing that the brown-armored robot was nowhere to be found, “Where is Lopez, exactly?”

“Heck if I know! He’s always hiding and doing things like turning off his radio transmitter, the little rascal.”

“Oh, sure. When _he_ does it, it’s okay. When _I_ do it, it’s insubordination.” Grif sighed tiredly.

“That’s because he actually _does_ follow through with assignments when he’s given them, dirt-bag.”

“Yeah, but if someone happened to know actual Spanish, and I’m not saying anyone here does,” Grif was awfully quick to amend, “What if they found out he was just insulting you the entire time? No one knows what he’s saying!”

“I’ll find him before we start,” Sarge said, turning his attention back to Simmons and ignoring Grif’s comment, “If you want to make sure we have all of the appropriate tools.”

“Of course, sir. I already did the inventory check, so it should be no problem.” Simmons ignored the comments of _“kiss-ass”_ and _“nerd”_ that came from the Grif siblings.

“Excellent.” Sarge nodded his head slightly in approval, “Now we’ll just help Caboose gather up his things and…”

“Caboose! There you are!” Donut came running through the corridor, catching up to his blue-armored friend before turning to look at everyone else gathered there, “Hey, guys!”

“Ensign Pastry!” Caboose grasped the pink-armored man’s hand jovially, “Were we playing a game that I did not know we were playing? I came here and sat in the kitchen. I looked everywhere!”

Donut looked sheepish, “S—sorry! I thought I would meet you at the Blues’ today.”

“It’s okay! We still have plenty of time.”

The soldier in light-ish red looked around at the curious exchanges their conversation was getting, and his face turned red in embarrassment. Donut opened his mouth to explain, when a voice coming from behind all of them interrupted whatever he was about to say.

“Sarge, can I have a word?” Washington’s face looked grimmer than normal, his mouth a tight line.

Simmons and Grif both glanced at each other, then turned to see what their leader would say. The others looked more or less confused.

Sarge frowned, “I take it this isn’t a social call?”

Washington nodded his head, “It’s about that rumor I heard of you trying to get some sort of classified out on the Dark Web?”

Sarge looked pointedly over at Simmons, who glanced away sheepishly, “Simmons, that counts as insubordination!”

“Really, sir, if you just thought about it for a minute…” Simmons’ explanation trailed off when he realized there was no point in trying to defend himself from his hot-blooded commanding officer.

“Simmons was right to tell me before you actually posted anything.” Washington said as the former Freelancer sighed, cutting in to the conversation before Sarge could get into his usual tirade about loyalty, “Were you seriously going to put our location out there for every questionable lunatic to see?”

Sarge huffed, “Not for all of them to see. Just one lunatic in particular.”

“I’m sure that Locus is considering you and Grif’s offer to officially join Red Team very seriously right now. Harassing him over it isn’t going to help.”

“Yeah, Sarge,” Donut exclaimed as he nodded his head emphatically in agreement, “That’s just called being desperate!”

“Which is just sad.” Grif couldn’t help but mock under his breath.

Sarge started mumbling under his breath then as Caboose grabbed onto Donut’s arm to pull him away happily: “Let’s go, Biscuit! I think Agent Carolina might still have the purple not-a-doctor’s number from when he was here before!”

Donut’s face actually turned a deeper red at the blue-armored man’s comment, “C—Caboose!” He shouted, surprisingly embarrassed. That almost never happened to Donut.

Kai, meanwhile, was wiggling her eyebrows suggestively towards both Washington and Sarge, “So what’s this website you can post classifieds on? I haven’t done _that_ in a long time!”

Grif rolled his eyes, “Goddamn it, Kai!” He muttered in exasperation.

The younger Grif simply smirked and stuck her tongue out at her brother. As Grif started questioning his little sister on just what sort of classifieds she had apparently posted in the past _(“The fun kind, duh!”)_ , Simmons excused himself to get to work on the assignment Sarge had given him.

If he could finish it quickly enough, then maybe he could get in some more time on his special program. He was getting really close to finishing it, if he could just…!

Simmons didn’t notice that Grif had glanced over towards him then and, upon noticing the serious and overly thinking frown plastered on the cyborg’s face, began frowning in concern as well.

*****

It was much, _much_ later when Simmons was finally able to get to work once again on the mysterious project that Kaikaina had inadvertently uncovered.

It had been after Carolina came back from her solo training sojourn. She claimed she needed to go on one every other week to help maintain her combat skills, but Grif had figured out that she was doing so to further improve her relaxation techniques since Carolina always seemed to come back even _more_ frustrated than before she left. Carolina promptly collected Caboose, Kai, Washington, and Tucker, who had shown up with Donut and Caboose when they had come back all while muttering something about how Donut’s taste was a little suspect, for the evening.

Caboose had thanked Grif and Simmons for the use of the kitchen earlier even though Red Team had mentioned before that he was always allowed to use it however he wanted so long as he didn’t start a fire in there, which was, incidentally, a bit of a challenge for him. Tucker pulled the blue-armored man along while Kai was busy regaling the two former Freelancers about her plans for an encore music festival on Chorus since the last one had been a roaring hit. Washington and Carolina kept glancing back and forth at each other, obviously torn between being impressed and in disbelief with the girl’s planned exploits.

Sarge had shaken his head as the Blues left with an oddly fond look on his face. The red-armored man had been doing that a lot since the whole Temple and the rest of the Blues and Reds deal had happened. Grif kept poking Simmons hard in the side whenever they noticed to ask if Simmons thought the older soldier had maybe recently had a stroke or something. After the Blues were no longer visible, Sarge had excused himself from dinner early to go to his workshop and office.

Donut had cheerily volunteered to do the dishes given his good mood since apparently he and Caboose had achieved whatever they had hoped to accomplish in regards to Doc, even though it was technically Lopez’s turn according to the chore wheel.

Truthfully, Donut may have volunteered just because of the robot’s penchant for using the same oil-soaked rag that he wiped off the equipment with for everything else, including the dishes and the TV, which had caused quite a commotion the first time it had happened. If Simmons didn’t know any better, he could have sworn that Lopez did so on purpose, as tonight he walked out of the kitchen to wherever he went when he had free time with what appeared to be a _skip_ in his step.

Grif, surprisingly, offered to help Donut out after he finished his last serving of food. Grif had been doing that more often lately, Simmons had noticed, even if he still tried to do as minimal as possible when it came to other things. But every so often, the orange-armored man would volunteer for tasks that he normally would have tried shirking in any way possible. As if he was trying to prove he could still be useful, as if…

Grif’s earlier words to Simmons about his needing to not overwork himself came to the forefront of his thoughts, and Simmons swallowed dryly. He left the kitchen quietly just as Donut gleefully exclaimed, “Why _sure_ , Grif! The more hard bodies we can squeeze in front of this wet mess, the better!”

Before Simmons knew it, he was back to work on his special project at the recently constructed Holographic Chamber.

It was more or less finished now, after months of careful research and painstakingly elaborate coding. After making sure that Sarge knew he wasn’t supposed to blow it up, which was a task in and of itself. After begging Lopez to help him move some actual furniture pieces into the space. Even though the robot had all but rolled his nonexistent eyes as he let out an electronic sigh of exasperation, he acquiesced all the same to avoid anymore of Simmons’ pitiable begging.

Right now, he was just more or less fine-tuning the thing and ironing out any kinks. Simmons needed the whole thing to be as flawless and perfect as possible. If it wasn’t, well, he had already proven how phenomenally sucky he was with words, hadn’t he?

And so the redhead stayed hunched over the programming console for who-knew-how-long, both his muscles and metallic parts aching at his horrible posture. His human eye was starting to tear up at having been fixed so relentlessly on the screen. By the time the cyborg felt it was as good as he was going to get it at this juncture, he stood up and stretched, his entire body screaming in silent, blessed relief at the motion.

Glancing at the clock display, Simmons did a start at having yet again worked into the early morning hours on this project before stifling a yawn. If he collapsed from exhaustion during the team meeting tomorrow, that would definitely cause some eyebrows to be raised in mild concern. But he was so, so close to being finished!

The maroon-armored soldier trudged through the quiet, darkened corridors back to his room, only pausing slightly at the sight of the door being somewhat open. A soft noise emerged from the supposedly empty space. It was the telltale noise of the radio, the one that a certain orange-wearing someone kept on quite a bit now when by himself.

Simmons let out a sharp breath of air as he pushed the door open further. Sure enough, in the dim light filtering into his bedroom, he could make out the form of Dexter Grif lying on his bed.

His face turned red at the sight, even though he had been the one to initiate the _“open door policy”_ between the two of them in light of their often troubled sleeping patterns. Often an issue for Simmons, a more recent development for Grif. They had discovered that they just seemed to get relaxed enough to sleep more when in the other’s presence. It totally wasn’t weird or unusual or something that Donut should be including in that _Scrapbook of Precious Memories_ everyone knew he was making.

“You know, for a guy who always has about ten cups of coffee in the morning,” Grif remarked casually as he turned off the radio, “You still like to take the kiss-assing to extremes.”

“I—I…” Simmons blinked, his tired brain not sure how to process this turn of events.

Grif sat up, both brown and green eyes regarding him carefully, “Except you _haven’t_ been working yourself to the point of exhaustion just for the glory of Red Team recently,” he asked rather sagely, “Have you, Simmons?”

Panic began to settle over Simmons, and he instinctually took a shaky step back. Shit! Just how much did Grif know then?

He was completely taken off-guard by the look of concern and hurt that crossed over Grif’s features next, “So what’s going on then? I thought if something was up you guys would tell me and I could try to help and…” Grif’s ramble trailed off as he shakily looked towards the ground, “Unless you think I’d just fuck things up again?”

“No!” The adamant, urgent tone that escaped Simmons surprised both himself _and_ Grif, but he pressed on because Grif was so completely off the mark, “That’s…that’s not it at all, Grif!”

But Grif still looked pensive and doubtful, and Simmons felt his entire body practically begin to overheat as he resigned himself. He was terrified that his secret project wasn’t perfect yet, that this would somehow screw things up. But maybe that was just his nerves and horribly low self-esteem kicking him yet again, and he would _never_ feel one hundred percent confident about it?

Simmons definitely wanted Grif to know that he hadn’t been excluding him for the reasons he thought, even if his guts were churning enough to have him nervously puke any second now.

“Come on,” he heard himself saying awkwardly over the suddenly very loud pounding of his chest gears, “I’ll show you.”

*****

Grif had to admit, whatever it was that he had anticipated Simmons was working himself to near death for, _this_ had definitely not been it.

“Whoa.” was all he could mutter as he stood staring at the completely transformed holographic space before him.

The usually empty and darkened area was now a brightly sunny beach that seemed to stretch on for as far as the eyes could see. He was standing barefoot in the sand, watching as ocean waves lapped lazily onto the shore, leaving a wet trail of debris in their wake as they receded only to start the cycle up all over again.

Grif could hear the sounds of the waves, the distant cries of birds that seemed to be flying far too high overhead to be seen currently. He swore he could feel the sunlight through the scant clouds warming his skin, a slight breeze ruffling his clothing as the scent of the beach and ocean filled his nostrils.

Even though he knew the whole thing was fake and that a lot of it was his mind supplying nostalgic cues, it was amazingly accurate. Grif took in a deep breath. The beach here on the moon paled in comparison to this reminder of one of the few places of home he hadn’t had craptastic memories of.

It had never been this free of passersby and tourists, but this was definitely the beach close by their shitty house, the one he would take Kai to when she was little for practically the whole day so that they could laugh, swim, and make sandcastles to pretend that things weren’t so bad. At least for a little while.

He had told Simmons stories about it from time to time, back when they had both been relaxed or slightly buzzed and he had felt comfortable, safe enough for once, to feel nostalgic. Simmons had shared a few things too then, and Grif always kept those small morsels of information close to his chest.

The last time he had talked about this beach had been right before the Temple of Procreation and all of the subsequent awkwardness that it had brought about. Riding the high of the war finally being over and being fucking _alive_ , he had talked about them both going there sometime after retirement. It hadn’t even crossed his mind to ask Simmons if he would want to come with him, but Simmons hadn’t seemed particularly keen on protesting the idea either.

Then the temple happened, and while that had been _beyond great_ at the time, neither of them were quite sure how to process it. So they had put the joint retirement trip on the backburner for later because that was always easier for them than outright talking.

He had thought, after everything, that Simmons had forgotten about the beach. Fuck, he almost had after being on his own. Almost. He used to imagine taking Volleyball!Simmons there, but figured it wouldn’t be as much fun.

“So, um, what do you think?” Simmons fidgeted nervously behind him, looking as if he half-expected Grif to turn around and punch him, “It’s not great, but um…”

“Are you fucking with me right now?” Grif asked incredulously.

“Uh…” Simmons half-uttered as he blinked and took a step back as if he was about to bolt.

“Why the fuck would you even do something like this?”

Simmons’ skin was a brilliant, freckled shade of red all the way to his metallic plating, “W—well, we didn’t get the chance to visit anywhere when we were back on Earth and,” his shoulders slumped as if he was trying to shrink in on himself, “You’d said before how you wanted to see it again so…”

“You actually did this for me?” Grif’s tone was disbelieving, his heart beating nearly out of his chest.

A shaky nod in response as Simmons averted his gaze, “Who—who else would I have done it for, dumbass?”

His throat was dry, “But all that shit I pulled, I—!” Grif tried to get out, but Simmons cut him off by looking up and over at him sharply.

“We’ve all pulled shit, Grif. We just fucking left you here. You can’t keep beating yourself up over it.”

“That’s calling the kettle, dude.” Grif smiled softly, _fondly_ all the same.

“So I know what I’m talking about then.” Simmons smiled slightly himself, exuding more confidence despite how obviously nervous he still was, “We…we all want you around, Grif.” His face was turning red again, “At least, I definitely do.”

_“I’m glad you’re back.”_

Simmons’ words, both now and back at Temple’s underwater evil lair, tugged at Grif’s insides. He felt both giddy and as if he might tear up at any given second. At least this time there wasn’t an intrusive cameraman around to ruin something maybe _(hopefully)_ happening.

“Thanks, Simmons.” Grif murmured softly.

“Ah! You’re…” Simmons fidgeted again, his face once more absolutely and adorably red, “You’re welcome, Grif.”

Grif reluctantly tore his gaze away from one all-too pleasing sight to regard another one, albeit perhaps not _as_ pleasing by just a fraction, his eyes taking in every little detail.

To think that this had been Simmons’ secret side project. That he had been working himself to sheer exhaustion just for Dexter Grif of all people… His eyes focused on something in the corner of the Holographic Chamber, only to widen at the familiar object, “Holy shit! Is that an actual bed?”

Simmons laughed nervously, looking like he wanted to bolt again, “Y—yeah. Lopez helped me with it.” He shakily explained, “I…I thought you might like sleeping here, on account of the sounds and all.”

“Huh. Like a really nerdy version of those sounds of nature albums?” Grif joked, clearly amused, “I bet you had those as a kid.”

“It…it was a dumb idea, I know.” Simmons deflated again though he neither confirmed nor denied Grif’s joking remark, looking rather embarrassed, “I just thought, with you needing sound to sleep now…”

Grif frowned thoughtfully, “It’s not so much the sound I need as that I can’t sleep alone, Simmons.”

“Oh. Right.” The redhead said despondently, shoulders slumping even further.

Grif smirked and walked over to Simmons, grabbing his hand before either man really had the chance to overthink again. Simmons, surprised, looked up into his face questioningly and Grif could make out the obvious rings under his non-cybernetic green eye.

“So I was thinking, seeing as how you went to the trouble and all, and you look about to keel over yourself, maybe you’d want to test this sucker out with me?” Grif grinned, trying to ignore how his own face was feeling noticeably warmer, “Just to make sure this whole thing actually works like it’s supposed to.”

“Like…like a test run?” Simmons’ face was probably a furnace by now given how red his pale skin had turned.

“Don’t go and nerd it up even more, Simmons.”

Grif pulled a nonresistant Simmons over towards the bed, both men’s grip on the other’s hand rather reassuringly tight.

…Later on, when Lopez was sent to find the two missing Red Team members, he discovered Grif and Simmons still curled around the other, sound asleep on the artificial beach.

The robot sighed, promptly exiting as quickly as his mechanical legs could carry him to put a “Fuera de Servicio” _{“Out of Order”}_ sign on the door.

“Realmente deberían pagarme por tener que aguantar esto.” _{“They really should be paying me for having to put up with this.”}_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, this story was a long one! XD In my defense, half of it had actually been written up and sitting on my computer for about two years now as a salvaged part of my first fan fic attempt for this fandom that I later on scrapped. I just finally got around to tweaking and editing the sucker a bit, working it into a post-Season 15 one shot instead after an idea came to me. XD
> 
> So if there is a noticeable difference in the quality of the writing or narrative or things seem a bit off somehow, that is probably why, lol.
> 
> This week has been a bit of a rough one for me as I was suffering from a rather nasty bout of illness along with a lack of decent sleep, so I again have to apologize for any mistakes I may have made here. I had been planning on possibly writing even more and getting out the second chapter of _Reflective Shards_ in particular, but ended up having to put those plans on the backburner. Still, Fluff Week has made me all sorts of consoled and happy, and I wanted to post a little bit of awkwardly written fluff myself in thanks for that. You guys are awesome! :)
> 
> Thank you for reading! :D


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